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FAITH  AND  FANCY. 


BY 

JOHN  SAVAGE, 

AUTHOR    OF   "SYBIL,    A    TBAGEDY." 


NEW  YORK  : 
JAMES     B.    KIRKER, 

699    BROADWAY. 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C. :   PHILP  &  SOLOMON. 

1864. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1863, 

BY  JAMES  B.  KIKKER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


PS 


By  the  same  Author, 

In  Press.    Library  Edition. 

SYBIL, 

A    TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE    ACTS. 


904257 

-05 


TO  THE 

HON.  CHARLES  P.  DALY,  LL.D., 

JUDGE  OF  THE  COURT  OF  COMMON  ELEA8,  NEW  YORK, 
ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 


MY  DEAB  FRIEND  : 

With  great  esteem  for  your  many  virtues  and 
accomplishments,  I  dedicate  this  book  of  "  Faith  and  Fancy"  to 
you,  and  sincerely  regret  my  inability  to  make  it  more  worthy 
of  your  acceptance.  While,  however,  I  am  thus  proudly  eager 
to  let  my  readers  know  how  I  value  private  worth  and  public 
integrity ;  how  in  your  person  I  honor  purity  of  feeling,  up- 
rightness of  character,  and  steadfast  devotion  to  principle ;  and 
admire  the  variety  of  talent  and  intellectual  resources  which 
illustrate  the  unceasing  promptings  of  your  heart  to  generous 
efforts  in  behalf  of  Letters,  Science,  Humanity,  and  Justice ; — 
while  I  thus  take  advantage  of  this  Publication  to  boast  sincere 
affection  and  respect  for  one  so  widely  useful  and  so  generally 
beloved,  let  me,  under  cover  of  the  indulgence  your  public 
services  will  command,  add  a  very  few  words  touching  the  vol- 
ume I  offer  you. 

Prefaces,  it  would  seem,  are  not  so  much  the  fashion  now  as 
in  days  gone  by,  though  I  am  glad  to  see  that  some  of  our  best 
aud  most  powerful  writers  do  not  ignore  the  good  old  sociable 
custom.  I  confess  to  a  feeling  of  self-respect  which  would  com- 
pel me  to  raise  my  hat,  by  way  of  prefatory  courtesy,  to  the 
person  who,  either  at  his  own  or  my  desire,  was  going  to  be 
the  confidant  of  my  hopes,  woes,  experiences,  or  sensations. 
Every  person  who  writes  poetry,  is  in  such  a  position  of  self- 
exposure.  If  he  aspire  at  all  to  transcribe  or  embody  the  feel- 
ings which  evoke  or  prompt  human  action,  he  cannot  help 


6  DEDICATION. 

writing  largely  from  his  own  heart's  blood,  and  in  the  hues  it 
has  taken  by  contact  with  Men,  Faith,  and  Nature.  Hence,  I 
desire  to  appropriate  a  paragraph  of  this  dedicatory  epistle  to 
briefly  convey  to  my  kind  readers  what  otherwise  might  be 
stated  in  a  Preface. 

With  few  exceptions,  the  pieces  herein  collected  have  been 
published — some  anonymously  and  a  few  as  translations — in 
various  periodicals,  during  the  past  thirteen  years;  and  in 
many  instances  received  a  degree  of  popular,  and  in  some  cases 
critical  attention.  I  did  not  anticipate.  After  reproduction  in 
various  presses,  some  have  found  their  way  into  collections; 
others  have  been  read  by  professional  readers  to  large  and  ap- 
proving audiences  ;  and  others  again — in  the  earlier  portion  of 
the  volume — have  been  quoted  by  eminent  and  popular  speakers 
on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  The  song  at  the  opening  of  the 
Book,  is  placed  there  out  of  respect,  not  only  to  the  subject 
which  should  be  first  in  our  hearts,  but  also  to  the  gallant 
soldiers  who  gave  it  its  first  eclat  on  the  historical  occasion  de- 
scribed in  the  note.  However  undue  and  unmerited  the  kind 
approbation  referred  to,  /  cannot  overlook  it ;  and  in  deeply 
appreciating  it,  feel  some  justification  in  collecting  the  scattered 
links  of  years  between  the  Press,  the  Public,  and  myself;  and — 
with  the  addition  of  a  few  others — welding  all  into  a  chain 
which,  I  trust,  will  bind  me  still  more  pleasantly  and  serviceably 
to  them. 

Begging  you  to  receive  this  dedication  as  an  humble  though 
earnest  tribute  to  good  nature  and  great  services, 
I  have  the  honor  to  be 

Your  friend  and  servant, 

JOHN  SAVAGE. 

DECEMBER  13,  1863. 


CONTENTS. 


FAOC 

The  Starry  Flag 9 

The  Muster  of  the  North 12 

The  Patriot  Mother T. 22 

Soldier's  Song 23 

God  preserve  the  Union 26 

A  Battle  Prayer 29 

Requiem  for  the  Dead  of  the  Irish  Brigade 81 

Redemption 83 

Flowereon  my  Desk 84 

A  Phantasy 88 

Mina 40 

"Remember  we  are  Friends" 42 

To  an  Artist 44 

Lilla. 47 

Haunted 49 

Love's  Imagination 61 

"  May  God  bless  us" 53 

Celia's  Tea 58 

A  New  Life 54 

The  God-Child  of  July 57 

Breasting  the  World 60 

At  Niagara: 

The  Rapids 61 

The  Falls 62 

Shane's  Head...                                                                             .  64 


8  CONTEKTS. 

PAOB 

St.  Anne's  Well 68 

Winter  Thoughts : 

I.  The  Dead  Year 72 

II.  A  Frosty  Night 78 

III.  Snow  on  the  Ground 74 

IV.  Summer  always 75 

V.  Faces  in  the  Fire 76 

Washington 77 

The  Plaint  of  the  Wild-flower 80 

Game  Laws .' 83 

Dreaming  by  Moonlight 85 

Effie  Gray 107 

The  Parting  of  the  Sun 109 

He  Writes  for  Bread 112 

NOTES ..  115 


FAITH  AND  FANCY. 


THE  STARRY  FLAG.1 

AJ»-«  Dteie't  Land,"— Recitativo. 


OH,  the  starry  flag  is  the  flag  for  me  I 
'Tis  the  flag  of  life !  the  flag  of  the  free  ! 
Then  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

For  the  flag  of  the  Union  ! 
Oh,  the  starry  flag,  &c. 

We'll  raise  that  starry  banner,  boys, 

Hurrah !  hurrah  ! 

We'll  raise  that  starry  banner,  boys, 
Where  no  "power  in  wrath  can  face  it ! 

On  town  and  field, 

The  people's  shield, 
No  treason  can  erase  it ! 

O'er  all  the  land 

That  flag  must  stand, 
Where  the  people's  might  shall  place  it. 


10  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 

II. 

That  flag  was  won  through  gloom  and  woe ! 
It  has  blessed  the  brave  and  awed  the  foe  ! 

Then  hurrah !  hurrah  ! 

For  the  flag  of  the  Union  I 
That  flag  was  won,  &c. 
We'll  raise  that  starry  banner,  boys, 

Hurrah !  hurrah  1 

We'll  raise  that  starry  banner,  boys, 
Where  the  stripes  no  hand  can  sever  1 

On  fort  and  mast, 

We'll  nail  it  fast, 
To  balk  all  base  endeavor ! 

O'er  roof  and  spire 

A  living  fire 
The  Stars  shall  blaze  forever  ! 


'Tis  the  people's  will,  both  great  and  small, 
The  rights  of  the  States,  the  union  of  all  1 

Then  hurrah  1  hurrah ! 

For  the  flag  of  the  Union  ! 

'Tis  the  people's  will,  &c. 
We'll  raise  that  starry  banner,  boys, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah ! 

We'll  raise  that  starry  banner,  boys, 
Till  it  is  the  world's  wonder  ! 

On  fort  and  crag 

We'll  plant  that  flag 
With  the  people's  voice  of  thunder  I 

We'll  plant  that  flag 

Where  none  can  drag 
Its  immortal  folds  asunder ! 


THE    STARRY    FLAG.  11 

IV. 

We  must  keep  that  flag  where  it  e'er  has  stood, 
In  front  of  the  free,  the  wise,  and  the  good  1 
Then  hurrah  1  hurrah  1 

For  the  flag  of  the  Union  I 

We  must  keep  that  flag,  &c. 

We'll  raise  that  starry  banner,  boys, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 

We'll  raise  that  starry  banner,  boys, 
On  field,  fort,  mast,  and  steeple  ! 

And  fight  and  fall 

At  our  country's  call, 
By  the  glorious  flag  of  the  people  I 

In  God,  the  just,  v 

We  place  our  trust, 
To  defend  the  flag  of  the  people  I 

On  board  U.  S.  Transport  "  Jlarion,"  Monday,  May  18, 1881. 


12  FAITH  AND  FANCY. 


THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH. 

A  BALLAD  OF  '61. 
I. 

"  OH,  mother,  have  you  heard  the  news  ?" 

"  Oh,  father,  is  it  true  ?" 
"  Oh,  brother,  were  I  but  a  man" — 

"  Oh,  husband,  they  shall  rue  !" 
Thus,  passionately,  asked  the  boy, 

And  thus  the  sister  spoke, 
And  thus  the  dear  wife  to  her  mate, 

The  words  they  could  not  choke. 
"  The  news !  what  news  ?"     "  Oh,  bitter  news — they've 

fired  upon  the  flag — 

The  flag  no  foreign  foe  could  blast,  the  traitors  down 
would  drag." 

ii. 
"  The  truest  flag  of  liberty 

The  world  has  ever  seen — 
The  stars  that  shone  o'er  Washington 

And  guided  gallant  Greene  ! 
The  white  and  crimson  stripes  which  bode 

Success  hi  peace  and  war, 
Are  draggled,  shorn,  disgraced,  and  torn — 

Insulted  star  by  star  ; 


THE  MUSTER  OP  THE  NORTH.  13 

That  flag  which  struggling  men  point  to,  rebuking  kingly 

codes, 
The  flag  of  Jones  at  Whitehaven,  of  Reid  at  Fayal 

Roads." 


"  Eh,  neighbor,  can'st  believe  this  thing  ?" 

The  neighbor's  eyes  grew  wild  ; 
Then  o'er  them  crept  a  haze  of  shame, 

As  o'er  a  sad,  proud  child ; 
His  face  grew  pale,  he  bit  his  lip, 

Until  the  hardy  skin, 
By  passion  tightened,  could  not  hold 

The  boiling  blood  within ; 

He  quivered  for  a  moment,  the  indignant  stupor  Stroke, 
And  the  duties  of  the  soldier  in  the  citizen  awoke. 

rv. 

On  every  side  the  crimson  tide 

Ebbs  quickly  to  and  fro  ; 
On  maiden  cheeks  the  horror  speaks 

With  fitful  gloom  and  glow ; 
In  matrons'  eyes  their  feelings  rise, 

As  when  a  danger,  near, 
Awakes  the  soul  to  full  control 

Of  all  that  causes  fear  ; 
The  subtle  sense,  the  faith  intense,  of  woman's  heart  and 

brain, 

Give  her  a  prophet's  power  to  see,  to  suffer,  and  main- 
tain. 


Through  city  streets  the  fever  beats — 
O'er  highways  byways,  borne — 
2 


14  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 

The  boys  grow  men  -with  madness, 
And  the  old  grow  young  in  scorn  ; 

The  forest  boughs  record  the  vows 
Of  men,  heart-sore,  though  strong  ; 

Th'  electric  wire,  with  words  of  fire, 

The  passion  speeds  along, 
Of  traitor  hordes  and  traitor  swords  from  Natchez  to 


And  like  a  mighty  harp  flings  out  the  war-chant  to  the 


And  into  caverned  mining  pits 
'  The  insult  bellows  down ; 
And  up  through  the  hoary  gorges, 

Till  it  shouts  on  the  mountain's  crown  ; 
Then  foaming  o'er  the  table-lands, 

Like  a  widening  rapid,  heads  ; 
And  rolling  along  the  prairies, 

Like  a  quenchless  fire  it  spreads ; 
From  workman's  shop  to  mountain  top  there's  mingled 

wrath  and  wonder, 

It  appalls,  them  like  the  lightning,  and  awakes  them  like 
the  thunder. 


The  woodman  flings  his  axe  aside  ; 

The  farmer  leaves  his  plough ; 
The  merchant  slams  his  ledger  lids 

For  other  business  now ; 
The  artisan  puts  up  his  tools, 

The  artist  drops  his  brush, 


THE   MTTSTER  OF  THE   NORTH.  IS 

And  joining  hands  for  Liberty, 

To  Freedom's  standard  rush  ; 
The  doctor  folds  his  suit  of  black,  to  fight  as  best  he 

may, 
And  e'en  the  flirting  exquisite  is  "  eager  for  the  fray." 


The  students  leave  their  college  rooms, 

Full  deep  in  Greece  and  Rome, 
To  make  a  rival  glory  • 

For  a  better  cause  near  home  ; 
The  lawyer  quits  his  suits  and  writs, 

The  laborer  his  hire, 
And  in  the  thrilling  rivalry 
The  rich  and  poor  aspire  ! 

And  party  lines  are  lost  amid  the  patriot  commotion, 
As  wanton  streams  grow  strong  and  pure  within  the 
heart  of  ocean. 


The  city  parks  are  thronged  ; 
In  country  stores  there  roars  and  pours 

The  means  to  right  the  wronged  ; 
The  town  halls  ring  with  mustering ; 

From  holy  pulpits,  too, 
Good  priests  and  preachers  volunteer 

To  show  what  men  should  do — 
To  show  that  they  who  preach  the  truth  and  God  above 

revere, 

Can  die  to  save  for  man  the  blessings  God  has  sent  down 
here. 


16  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 


And  gentle  fingers  everywhere 

The  busy  needles  ply, 
To  deck  the  manly  sinews 

That  go  out  to  do  or  die ; 
And  maids  and  mothers,  sisters  dear, 

And  dearer  wives,  outvie 
Each  other  in  the  duty  sad, 

That  makes  all  say  "  Good-by"— 
The  while  in  every  throbbing  heart  that's  pressed  in  fare- 
well kiss 

Arises  pangs  of  hate  on  those  who  brought  them  all  to 
this. 


The  mustering  men  are  entering 
For  near  and  distant  tramps  ; 
The  clustering  crowds  are  centering 

In  barrack-rooms  and  camps  ; 
There  is  riveting  and  pivoting, 

And  furbishing  of  arms, 
And  the  willing  marching,  drilling, 

With  their  quick  exciting  charms, 
Half  dispel  the  subtle  sorrow  that  the  women  needs  must 

feel, 

When  e'en  for  Right  their  dear  ones  fight  the  Wrong  with 
steel  to  steel. 


With  hammerings  and  clamorings, 

The  armories  are  loud  ; 
Toilsome  clangor,  joy,  and  anger, 

Like  a  cloud  enwrap  each  crowd  ; 


THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH.  17 

Belting,  buckling,  cursing,  chuckling, 

Sorting  out  their  "  traps"  in  throngs  ; 
Some  are  packing,  some  knapsacking, 

Singing  snatches  of  old  songs  ; 

Fifers  finger,  lovers  linger  to  adjust  a  badge  or  feather, 
And  groups  of  drummers  vainly  strive  to  reveille  to- 
gether. 


And  into  many  a  haversack 

The  prayer-book's  mutely  borne — 
Its  well-thumbed  leaves  in  faithfulness 

By  wives  and  mothers  worn —  • 
And  round  full  many  a  pillared  neck, 

O'er  many  a  stalwart  breast, 
The  sweetheart  wife's— the  maiden  love's 

Dear  effigy's  caressed. 
God  knows  by  what  far  camp-fire  may  these  tokens 

courage  give, 

To  fearless  die  for  truth  and  home,  i£  not  for  them  to 
live. 


And  men  who've  passed  their  threescore  years, 

Press  on  the  ranks  in  flocks, 
Their  eyes,  like  fire  from  Hecla's  brow, 

Burn  through  their  snowy  locks ; 
And  maimed  ones,  with  stout  hearts,  persist 

To  mount  the  belt  and  gun, 
And  crave,  with  tears — while  forced  away — 

To  march  to  Washington. 
2* 


18  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 

"  Why  should  we  -not  ?    We  love  that  flag  1     Great 

God  I" — they  choking  cry — 
"  We're  strong  enough  1     We're  not  too  old  for  our 

dear  land  to  die  I" 


xv. 

And  in  the  mighty  mustering, 

No  petty  hate  intrudes, 
No  rival  discords  mar  the  strength 

Of  rising  multitudes  ; 
The  jealousies  of  faith  and  clime 

Which  fester  in  success, 
Give  place  to  sturdy  friendships 

Based  on  mutual  distress  ; 
For  every  thinking  citizen  who  draws  the  sword,  kno^ 

well 
The  battle's  for  Humanity — for  Freedom's  citadel  I 


•  XYI. 

0,  Heaven  1  how  the  trodden  hearts, 

In  Europe's  tyrant  world, 
Leaped  up  with  new-born  energy 
When  that  flag  was  unfurled  ! 
How  those  who  suffered,  fought,  and  died, 

In  fields,  or  dungeon-chained, 
Prayed  that  the  flag  of  Washington 
Might  float  while  earth  remained  1 
And  weary  eyes  in  foreign  skies,  still  flash  with  fire  anew, 
When  some  good  blast  by  peak  and  mast  unfolds  that 
flag  to  view. 


THE   MUSTER   OF  THE    NORTH.  19 

XVII. 

And  they  who,  guided  by  its  stars, 

Sought  here  the  hopes  they  gave, 
Are  all  aglow  with  pilgrim  fire 

Their  happy  shrines  to  save. 
Here — Scots  and  Poles,  Italians,  Gauls, 

With  native  emblems  trickt ; 
There — Teuton  corps,  who  fought  before 

Far  Freiheit  undfitr  Licht  ;9 

While  round  the  flag  the  Irish  like  a  human  rampart  go  ! 
They  found  Cead  mille  failthe*  here — they'll  give  it  to 
the  foe. 


From  the  vine-land,  from  the  Rhine-land, 
From  the  Shannon,  from  the  Scheldt, 
From  the  ancient  homes  of  genius, 
From  the  sainted  home  of  Celt, 
From  Italy,  from  Hungary, 

All  as  brothers  join  and  come, 
To  the  sinew-bracing  bugle, 

And  the  foot-propelling  drum  t 

Too  proud  beneath  the  starry  flag  to  die,  and  keep  secure 
The  Liberty  they  dreamed  of  by  the  Danube/Elbe,  and 
Suir. 


From  every  hearth  bounds  up  a  heart, 
As  spring  from  hill-side  leaps, 

To  give  itself  to  those  proud  streams 
That  make  resistless  deeps  ! 

No  book-rapt  sage,  for  age  on  age, 
Can  point  to  such  a  sight 


20  FAITH   AND    F4.NCY. 

As  this  deep  throb,  which  woke  from  rest 

A  people  armed  for  fight. 
Peal  out,  ye  bells,  the  tocsin  peal,  for  never  since  the 

day 

When  Peter  roused  the  Christian  world  has  earth  seen 
w  such  array. 

xx. 

Which  way  we  turn,  the  eyeballs  burn 

With  joy  upon  the  throng  ; 
Mid  cheers  and  prayers,  and  martial  airs, 

The  soldiers  press  along  ; 
The  masses  swell  and  wildly  yell, 

On  pavement,  tree,  and  roof, 
And  sun-bright  showers  of  smiles  and  flowers 

Of  woman's  love  give  proof. 
Peal  out,  ye  bells,  from  church  and  dome,  in  rivalrous 

communion 

With  the  wild,  upheaving  masses,  for  the  army  of  the 
Union! 

XXI. 

Onward  trending,  crowds  attending, 

Still  the  army  moves — and  still : 
Arms  are  clashing,  wagons  crashing 

In  the  roads  and  streets  they  fill ; 
O'er  them  banners  wave  in  thousands, 

Round  them  human  surges  roar, 
Like  the  restless-bosomed  ocean, 

Heaving  on  an  iron  shore : 
Cannons  thunder,  people  wonder  whence  the  endless  river 


With  its  foam  of  bristling  bay'nets,  and  its  cataracts  of 
drums. 


THE  MUSTER  OF  THE  NORTH.  21 


"  God  bless  the  Union  army  1" 

That  holy  thought  appears 
To  symbolize  the  trustful  eyes 

That  speak  more  loud  than  cheers. 
"  God  bless  the  Union  army, 

And  the  flag  by  which  it  stands, 
May  it  preserve,  with  freeman's  nerve, 

What  freedom's  God  demands  1" 
Peal  out,  ye  bells— ye  women,  pray ;  for  never  yet  went 

forth 

So  grand  a  band,  for  law  and  land,  as  the  muster  of  the 
North. 


22  FAITH  AND  FANCY. 


THE  PATRIOT  MOTHER. 


WHEN  o'er  the  land  the  battle  brand 

In  freedom's  cause  was  gleaming, 
And  everywhere  upon  the  air 

The  starry  flag  was  streaming, 
The  widow  cried  unto  her  pride, 

"  Go  forth  and  join  the  muster ; 
Thank  God,  my  son  can  bear  a  gun 

To  crown  his  race  with  lustre  ! 
Go  forth  !  and  come  again  not  home, 

If  by  disgrace  o'erpowered  ; 
My  heart  can  pray  o'er  hero's  clay, 

But  never  clasp  a  coward  1" 

n. 
"God  bless  thee,  boy,  my  pride,  my  joy, 

My  old  eyes'  light  and  treasure — 
Thy  father  stood  'mid  flame  and  blood 

To  fill  the  freeman's  measure. 
His  name  thy  name — the  cause  the  same, 

Go  join  thy  soldier  brothers  ! 
Thy  blow,  alone,  protects  not  one, 

But  thousands,  wives  and  mothers. 
May  every  blessing  Heaven  can  yield 

Upon  thy  arms  be  showered ! 
Come  back  a  hero  from  the  field, 

But  never  come  a  coward." 


SOLDIER'S  SONG. 


SOLDIER'S  SONG. 


I'D  rather  be  a  soldier 

In  a  gallant,  glorious  cause, 
To  uphold  a  people's  honor, 

Their  liberty  and  laws, 
Than  wearily  and  drearily 

To  pass  my  life  away, 
Living  but  for  living's  sake, 
/       And  dying  ev'ry  day. 

Chorus. — I'd  rather  be  a  soldier  I 

A  tramping,  camping  soldier  1 
A  soldier  away  to  the  field 
Where  the  God  of  right  above, 
Smiles  upon  the  flag  we  love, 
As  we  fight,  fall,  but  never  yield. 

n. 

I'd  rather  be  a  soldier 

In  the  watchful  bivouac, 
'Mid  night  alarms,  and  calls  to  arms, 

To  meet  the  dawn's  attack, 
Than  slumber  hi  the  city's  heart, 

In  callous,  blank  repose, 


24  FAITH    AND    FANCY 

When  every  man  should  be  awake 
To  face  the  nation's  foes. 

I'd  rather  be  a  soldier,  etc. 


I'd  rather  be  a  soldier, 

In  the  flashing,  crashing  van, 
And  win  the  love  of  mankind, 

By  the  blow  I  strike  for  man, 
Than  mope  in  subtle  selfishness, 

With  empty  pleas  for  "  Peace," 
While  each  delay  to  win  the  right 

But  makes  the  wrong  increase. 

I'd  rather  be  a  soldier,  etc. 

IV. 

I'd  rather  be  a  soldier, 

'Mid  the  battle's  rage  and  ire, 
With  heart  that  mocks  the  sabre  thrust, 

And  soul  that  scoffs  the  fire, 
Than  live  to  feel  no  glory 

In  my  nation,  flag,  and  race — 
Oh,  better  fall  to  crown  them  all, 

Than  live  to  their  disgrace  1 
I'd  rather  be  a  soldier,  etc. 


Then  forward,  gallant  comrades  ! 

Welcome  any  fate  that  comes  ; 
We  rise  to  freedom's  bugle-blast, 

We  step  to  freedom's  drums  : 


SOLDIER'S  SONG. 

The  God  that  gave  us  liberty, 
Will  see  us  through  the  foam 

Of  battle,  while  we  bravely  fight 
For  our  dear  ones  at  home. 

I'd  rather  be  a  soldier,  etc. 
3 


FAITH  AND   FANCY. 


GOD  PRESERVE  THE  UNION. 

i. 

BROTHERS,  there  are  times  when  nations 

Must,  like  battle-worn  men, 
Leave  their  proud,  self-builded  quiet 

To  do  service  once  again  : 
When  the  banners  blessed  by  fortune, 

And  by  blood  and  brain  embalmed, 
Must  re-throb  the  soul  with  feelings 

That  long  happiness  hath  calmed. 
Thus  the  Democratic  faith  that  won 

The  nation,  now  hath  need 
To  raise  its  ever  stalwart  arm, 

And  save  what  twice  it  freed. 

So  friends  fill  up 

The  brimming  cup 
In  brotherly  communion — 

Here's  blood  and  blow 

For  a  foreign  foe, 
And  God  preserve  the  Union. 


There  are  factions  passion-goaded, 
There  are  turbulence  and  wrath, 

And  swarthy  dogmas  bellowing 
Around  the  people's  path  ; 


GOD  PRESERVE  THE  UNION.  21 

There  are  false  lights  in  the  darkness, 

There  are  black  hearts  in  the  light, 
And  hollow  heads  are  mimicking 

The  Jove-like  people's  might. 
But,  ah !  the  Democratic  strength 

That  smote  an  empire's  brow, 
Can  with  its  regnant  virtues  tame 

Mere  home-made  factions  now. 

So  friends  let's  band 

For  fatherland— 
In  brotherly  communion, 

Let  every  mouth 

Cry  "  North  and  South," 
And  God  preserve  the  Union. 


While  the  young  Republic's  bosom 

Seems  with  rival  passions  torn — 
Growing  from  the  very  freedom 

Of  the  speech  within  it  born  ; 
Europe,  in  its  haggard  frenzy 

To  behold  no  earthly  sod, 
Where  its  white  slaves  may  unbend  them, 

Orl)end  but  to  Freedom's  God — 
Europe  madly  hails  the  omen — 

Strains  its  bloodshot  eyes  to  view 
A  native  treason  toiling  at 

The  work  it  strove  to  do. 

So,  friends,  let's  all 
Like  a  rampart  wall — 
In  granite-built  communion, 


28  FAITH    AND  FANCY. 

Stand  firmly  proud, 
'Gainst  the  kingly  crowd — 
And  God  preserve  the  Union. 


Since  that  day,  when  frantic  people 

Round  the  State  House  rose  and  fell, 
Like  an  angry  ocean  surging 

Round  some  rock-reared  citadel — 
When  the  Quaker  City  trembled 

'Neath  the  arming  people's  tramp, 
And  the  bell  proclaimed  to  iron  men 
Each  house  in  the  land  a  camp — 
Democracy  has  kept  that  bell 

Still  ^pealing  sound  on  sound, 
Until  its  potent  energy 
Haa  throbbed  the  wide  earth  round. 
So  let  it  ring, 
So  let  it  bring 
Us  brotherly  communion ; 
Here's  heart  and  hand, 
For  life  and  land  I 
And  God  preserve  the  Union ! 


A    BATTLE    PRAYER.  29 


A  BATTLE  PRAYER. 


GOD  of  the  righteous,  God  of  the  brave ! 
Strengthen  our  arms  our  country  to  save  ; 
Lead  us  to  victory's  peace-giving  charms : 
God  of  the  righteous,  strengthen  our  arms ! 


God  of  the  people's  cause,  God  of  the  free  ! 
From  hearth  and  hill-side  we  look  up  to  Thee  ; 
Make  us,  when  battle-clouds  thunder  and  roll, 
Titans  in  body,  and  true  men  in  soul. 


God  of  our  hopefulness,  God  of  the  right  I 
Be  to  us  armor  and  courage  in  fight  I 
Lift  us  on  valorous  fervor  to  be 
Terror  and  wrath  to  the  foes  of  the  free  1 

IV. 

God  of  humanity,  God  of  the  heart  1 
Let  not  the  man  in  the  soldier  depart  ; 
And  when  beneath  us  the  ruthless  foe  reels, 
Teach  us  the  mercy  the  true  hero  feels. 
3* 


FAITH   AND   FANCY. 


Gird  up  our  loins  then,  O  Lord !  for  the  truth, 
The  safety  of  age,  and  the  freedom  of  youth  ; 
Leads  us  to  victory's  peace-giving  charms : 
God  of  the  righteous  strengthen  our  arms  ! 


REQUIEM  FOB  THE  DEAD  OF  THE  IRISH  BRIGADE.        SI 


REQUIEM  FOR  THE  DEAD  OF  THE  IRISH 
BRIGADE. 

COME,  let  the  solemn,  soothing  Mass  be  said, 
For  the  soldier  souls  of  the  patriot  dead. 

Let  the  organ  swell,  and  the  incense  burn, 
For  the  hero  men  who  will  ne'er  return. 

Men  who  had  pledged  to  this  land  their  troth, 
And  died  to  defend  her,  ere  break  their  oath. 

But  if  high  the  praise,  be  as  deep  the  wail 
O'er  the  exiled  sons  of  the  warlike  Gael. 

From  their  acts  true  men  may  examples  reap  ; 
And  women  bless  them,  and  glorying,  weep. 

Proud  beats  the  heart  while  it  sorrowing  melts 
O'er  the  death-won  fame  of  these  truthful  Celts. 

For  the  scattered  graves  over  which  we  pray 
Will  shine  like  stars  on  their  race  alway. 

Oh,  what  doth  ennoble  the  Christian  man, 
If  not  dying  for  truth  in  freedom's  van  1 

What  takes  from  Death  all  its  terrors  and  gloom  ? 
Conscience  to  feel  Justice  blesses  the  tomb  I 


32  .  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

And  oh!  what  doth  build  up  a  nation's  weal 
But  courage  to  fight  for  the  truths  we  feel ! 

And  thus  did  these  braves,  on  whose  graves  we  wait, 
Do  all  that  make  nations  and  races  great. 

I 

OBEMTJS. 

Ye  living,  your  hearts  combine 
In  praise  and  prayer,  to  the  heavenly  shrine  : 

Ye  widowed  and  stricken, 

Your  trustfulness  quicken 
With  faith  in  the  Almighty  Giver  ; 

And  may  blessed  repose 

Be  the  guerdon  of  those 
Who  fell  at  Antietam  and  James's  river, 
By  the  Rappahannock  and  Chickahominy ; 
Requiem  (sternum  dona  eis  dominet 

May  their  souls  on  the  Judgment-day  arise ; 

Et  lux  perpetua  luceat  eis. 


BEDEMPTION. 


REDEMPTION. 

«  A  sound  heart  la  the  life  of  the  flesh. "-Proverbs. 
I. 

MISER,  see  that  hoard  of  gold — 

Mistress,  view  that  dower — 
Artist,  look  at  yon  fair  mould — 

Beauty,  wealth,  and  power  : 
There  they  are — but  what  are  these  ? 
False  leaves  decking  sapless  trees. 

n. 

Honesty  for  him  hath  naught — 

Truth  for  her  no  use — 
Yon  fair  shape  no  virtue  brought — 

All  are  life's  abuse  : 
But  like  Christ,  one  pure  heart's  birth 
Brings  redemption  to  an  earth  I 


34  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 


FLOWERS  ON  MY  DESK. 

YE  tiny  queens,  lift  up  your  pensive  heads, 

And  fear  not  that  a  magic  feeling  weds 
The  air  about  the  student's  chamber ; 

'Tis  true  those  books  inoculate  the  air 

With  their  intense  divinity, 

And  measure  in  the  rhythm  of  each  mystic  prayer 

The  hopes  and  blessings  of  infinity : 
But  ye  may  into  all  their  secrets  clamber, 

As  little  stars  may  wander  through  the  skies, 

And  find  out  all  the  bliss  of  Paradise. 

The  poet  and  the  plant  are  near  allied ; 

Nature's  best  offspring,  she  of  both  the  pride  : 

So,  fear  thee  not,  nor  fail  to  number, 

Amongst  thy  friends  those  stately  quartos  which — 
Some  standing  upright  to  their  proudest  height, 
And  some  reclining  in  a  tired  plight, 

Like  drows-eyed  sentinels  who  laz'ly  hitch 

Their  sides  to  wakeful  slumber — 

Gather  around  as  if  to  guard  the  prize, 

That  dainty  hands  and  brightest  eyes 

Had  culled  for  me.    Ye  conjure  up 

Like  the  swift  shadow  of  a  welcome  comer, 
Or  early  buds  that  whisper  us  of  summer — 

You  fragrant  rose  and  rustic  buttercup, 


FLOWERS   ON    MY    DESK.  .  Jf 

The  pleasant  presence  of  the  picturesque, 

And  light  and  artless, 

But  dare  I  say  the  heartless 
Maid,  who  gave  you  to  my  musty  desk. 

Like  her,  you're  fair, 
And  like  her,  too,  you're  tender, 

Light  as  May  ah*, 

Commingled  with  June  splendor, 
Joyous  as  Morning  when  he  freshly  gives 

A  like  rich  mirth 
To  all  around  that  in  his  radiance  lives 

In  air  or  earth  ; 
And  which  we  love  to  foster  as  we  stray, 

While  yet  the  town 
Winks  doubtful  welcome  to  the  god  of  day, 

In  midnight's  gown. 

Ah  I  I  can  picture  how  she  tripped  amid    ' 

The  little  fay-ground  where  she  tends  her  flowers, 
To  woo  ye,  as  ye  childishly  all  hid 

Each  others'  smile,  love-chained  to  natal  bowers ; 
Yes,  I  can  picture  how  she  tripped  along, 

Her  clear  laugh  car'lling  on  the  jealous  air, 
Which,  though  unquiet,  calmed  to  catch  her  song, 

And  test  its  fragrance  with  her  wild  breath  there. 

And  then  she,  heedless  of  the  list'ning  vapors, 
Footed  around  to  cull  the  richest  stems, 

Here  eyes  a  plant,  then  onward  gayly  capers, 
And  here  again,  and  there,  for  perfume  gems  ; 

Now  choosing  one,  and  now  discarding  ten, 

The  while  that  ten  grow  ripe  her  love-light  quaffing, 


36  FAITH   AND    FANCT. 

And  now  she  plucks  a  dainty  pair,  and  then 
Her  young  and  happy  heart  is  wildly  laughing. 

My  dainty  flowers,  dwell  ye  on  my  desk, 

Among  my  choicest  friends,  and  dear  good-fellow  books, 
Dwell  there  to  memorize  the  picturesque, 
And  laughing,  bright-eyed,  fairy-tinted  looks 
Of  her  who  culled  you  from  your  fragrant  nooks 
In  her  self-tended  Eden  : 
In  your  glee — 

Dwell,  tender  queens,  to  picture  forth  the  maiden 
Who  gave  you  unto  me. 

How  rich  a  thing  becomes  the  merest  leaf, 
When  memories — that  give  the  mind  relief 
Of  love,  of  hope,  ay  even,  or  of  grief, 
Are  twined  in  fragrant  bondage  to  it ! 
What  various  rapture  whirls  us  as  we  view  it  ? 
Each  rapture  leaping  up  from  thought's  horizon, 
Like  the  rich  clouds  that  fleck  the  ambient  skies  on 
Summer  days  between  the  noon  and  even — 
Golden  and  fantasque,  sailing  through  bright  heaven 
As  richest  thoughts  through  god-like  poet's  brain ; 
The  music  of  whose  full-toned  purple  strain 
Will  be  cast  back  from  every  cone  of  thought 
That  leaps  delighted  with  the  soul  thus  brought 
Into  its  lesser  being,  lighting  some  lesser  still, 
Until  wide  prairies  of  reflected  will 
Send  up,  like  exhalations  from  the  vernal 

Sun-besmitten  and  inspired  sod, 
Their  thanks  which  made  the  poet's  dreams  eternal. 

The  poet  does  not  dream — he  lives  with  God, 
Who  is  the  essence  of  all  right  and  beauty — 


FLOWERS   ON   KY   DESK. 

He  does  not  dream,  bat  lives  a  life  of  duty, 
So  far  above  "  realities"  of  Earth,  that  Earth 

With  mind,  like  dagger  to  a  point  grown  thin 
In  peculation,  will  not  see  his  worth, 

But  calls  his  life  a  dream  to  shield  its  lifelong  sin. 
And  as  I  gaze  on  yon  sweet  leafy  links 
Of  thought,  my  too  unguarded  Fancy  drinks 
"Whole  stonps  of  Hope,  that  frolic  through  my  brain 
Like  summer  clouds  in  Evening's  calm  domain ; 
And  they  too  like  the  poet's  thoughts  send  back 
Reflected  glory  on  their  founder's  track. 

While  ye  remain  there  I  shall  think  it  Night, 

Night  calmly  eloquent  and  grand  ; 
And  ye  the  lamps  that  shed  then*  vesper  light 

In  the  dim  cloisters  of  the  poet's  land ; 
And  when  ye  fade,  I'll  feel  the  silence  parted, 

And  Day,  hot-headed,  panting  in  my  face, 
With  words  too  broken  for  the  gloomy-hearted 

To  hang  a  hope  on  for  his  spirit's  grace. 
4 


38  FAITH    AND  FANCY. 


A  PHANTASY. 

I  WAS  dreaming,  the  other  night,  over  my  desk, 

All  alone, 
And  my  thoughts  held  me  still  in  a  net  arabesque 

Of  my  own  ; 
And,  as  Joy  at  its  height  held  in  silence,  I  sat, 

When  a  chord 
My  soul's  yearning  portals  there  came  ringing  at, 

And  I  heard 
A  peal  of  sweet  maid-laughing  tones  :  and  I  listened 

And  gazed ; 
When  out  from  the  silence  a  pair  of  eyes  glistened  ! 

I  raised 
My  hands  to  my  eyes,  which  felt  doubtful  of  vision. 

Forbear, 
Ye  Gods  of  the  Fancy !  what  features  elysian 

Were  there ! 
An  eye,  bright  as  Spring  after  kissing  the  rain, 

And  a  voice, 
With  the  richness  of  Psyche's  and  Flora's  wild  strain, 

Did  rejoice  ! 
And  leaped  its  sweet  carols  my  poor  heart  a-through, 

From  a  mouth 
Rich  as  strawberry  juice,  or  the  rose  'neath  the  dew 

In  the  South ! 
And  her  form  bright  as  hope,  seemed  to  beckon  me  on, 


A   PHANTASY.  89 

And  the  power 

Of  my  own  language  came,  and  I  spoke  ...  all  was  gone 
Save  a  flower. 

Why  Fancy — why  Beauty — whatever  thou  art, 

Dost  thou  chain, 
Promethean  like,  to  the  rock  of  my  heart 

My  wild  brain? 
Oh,  tender  sonl,  tell  me  what  likeness  thou'Jt  rear, 

In  thy  power, 
'Thveen  a  love-laughing  sprite  of  a  maidpn  so  fair 

And  a  flower  ? 


40  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 


MINA. 


MINA'S  eyes  are  dark  as  sorrow, 
Mina's  eyes  are  bright  as  morrow — 
Morrow  symbols  Hope  alway ; 
And  a  soul-lit  radiance  flashes 
Out  between  their  silken  lashes, 

As  from  out  the  sable  fringes  of  the  midnight  leaps  the 
day. 


Mina's  hair  is  black  as  madness, 
Mina's  hair  is  soft  as  gladness — 

Gladness  true  is  soft  and  low  ; 
And  its  heavy  richness  ponders 
O'er  her  brow,  as  student  wanders 
By  some  bardic  temple,  wordless  with  the  homage  he'd 
bestow. 


Mina's  brow  is  clear  as  amber, 
Mina's  brow  is  calm  as  chamber  • 

Where  God  lives  in  what  seems  dead  ; 
And  its  gentleness  is  giving 
E'er  a  mute  excuse  for  living 

On  in  passive  grandeur,  careless  of  the  fame  its  thoughts 
might  spread. 


MINA.  41 

IV. 

Mina's  mouth  is  ripe  £S  study, 
Mina's  mouth  is  full  and  ruddy — 

Tempting  as  the  August  peach  ; 
And  its  sweet  contentment  routing 
Off  a  melancholy  pouting, 

Welcomes  laughter  to  the  portals  where  the  trivial  ne'er 
can  reach.  • 

v. 

Mina's  heart  is  pure  as  childhood, 
Mina's  heart  is  fresh  as  wildwood, 

Where  each  tendril  dials  God  ; 
And  its  radiant  blessings  centred 
On  her  face,  have  ever  entered 

Through  her  eyes  those  happy  mortals  who  within  their 
mission  trod. 


Mina's  hand  is  sure  to  capture  1 
Mina's  touch  is  weird — its  rapture 

Is  electric,  seeming  numb  ; 
And  her  spirit  on  the  minute 
Thrills  .you  with  the  calm  joy  in  it, 
And  vibrating  you  to  eloquence,  compels  you  to  be  dumb. 
4* 


42  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 


"REMEMBER  WE  ARE  FRIENDS." 

"  No  matter  what  cornea  about,  our  friendship  must  not  be  severed." 
I. 

REMEMBER  we  are  friends,  dear  girl,  though  far  apart  and 

lonely, 
And  though  the  sunlight  of  your  smile  is  now  a  mem'ry 

only — 
And  though  the  love  I  dreamed  my  own  is  tombed 

where  sorrow  blends 
The  hopings   of  the    stormy  past — remember  we  are 

friends  I 

n. 

Mayhap  you'll  feel  the  ocean  world  too  chill,  your  life- 
shore  beating — 

Mayhap  your  heart,  like  mine,  may  see  its  darling  hope 
retreating — 

God  grant  you  joy  ! — but  who  may  know  what  comes 
when  daylight  ends  ? 

And  should  e'er  morrow  bring  you  gloom — remember 
we  are  friends.  « 

in. 
And  though  I'd  prize  your  love  beyond  all  womanly 

affection, 
And  though  a  hope  will  linger  yet  to  feed  my  heart's 

dejection, 


BEMEMBBB  WE  ARE   FRIENDS.  43 

I'd  rather  have  thy  young  heart  blessed,  in  blessing 

where  it  bends — 
Forget  me  as  a  lover,  but — remember  we  are  friends  I 

IV. 

I'll  meet  thee  yet  beside  the  hearth— that  hearth  that  is 

another's, 
And  my  still  young  gray  hairs  shall  joy  o'er  faces  like 

their  mother's  ! 
Mayhap  he'll  twit  my  loneliness,  and  boast  what  marriage 

sends, 
Unknowing  how  I  once  thought,  but — remember  we  are 

friends. 


44  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 


TO  AN  ARTIST. 


THE  old  man's  drifted  to  the  soundless  sea — 
Gone  back  to  death  and  heaven  :  as  a  perfume,  he 
Warmed  into  life  by  light  rose  into  sky's  immensity. 

Blondell,  I  have  to  thank  thee,  and  thy  art 
For  every  tremor  that  awakes  my  heart 
From  gloom,  when  gazing  on  his  pictured  counterpart. 

Your  pencil's  magic  drew  up  to  his  face 
His  innate  radiances,  as  the  sunlight's  grace 
Makes  voluble  the  innate  seed  hi  flowers  on  earth's  placid 
space. 

His  fair  round  forehead,  like  a  concave  glass, 
Enlarged  all  good  it  witnessed  to  a  mass, 
The  convex  lessening  ill,  so  that  none  ever  saw  it  pass. 

His  kind,  love-typifying  face  is  here 
With  all  its  fond  intensity ;  it  would  appear 
The  great  old  man  himself  had  just  but  ceased  to  rear 

The  vocal  solace  of  his  thoughts  around, 
And  dropped  off  into  silence,  while  the  sound 
Of  his  own  blessed  words  yet  o'er  his  features  wound : 


TO  AN   ARTIST.  45 

Ay,  in  the  lustre  of  their  purity, 
As  noiseless  mists  about  a  fountain's  glee 
Hover  on  the  air,  and  then  in  wavy  sun-bows  flee. 

Like  some  great  diver,  you  have  made  a  bound 
Into  his  nature,  loving,  vast,  profound, 
And  scattered  o'er  the  canvas  the  gems  profuse  you 
found. 


He  was  the  sun  that  lit  my  childhood  on, 
And  smiled  upon  me  as  on  earth  the  sun  ; 
But  now  your  canvas,  like  a  moon,  reflects  the  light  that's 
gone. 

But  on  my  morn  no  Sun  shall  say  to  Earth 
"  God  bless  you  I"  as  oft  he  :  his  song,  his  mirth 
Have  gone  with  evening  and  the  birds  —  all  here  is  voice- 
less dearth. 

I  cannot  weep,  I  have  such  stupor  drank  ; 
Enough,  like  sunless  day  I  am  all  blank  ; 
He  left  me  drunk  with  Love,  and  guideless  have  I  sank. 

All  his  quaint  humors,  all  his  cheering  sense, 
Ghost  through  my  brain,  that,  vague  with  wild  intents, 
Grasps  at  them  all,  and  finds  but  shadowy  cerements. 

A  thousand  questions  crowd  upon  my  tongue, 
With  thousand  answers  springing  them  among  ; 
For  he  was  of  me,  and  his  thoughts  like  mantles  o'er  me 
hung. 


46  FAITH  AND  FANCY. 

Mankind  lost  more  than  I  did  when  he  plied 
His  soul's  white  wings  for  heaven — though  my  pride 
And  guide  left  me  and  mine  unsolaced  when  he  died. 

God's  noblest  work  evanished  when  he  fled, 
This  great  world  missed  an  honest  man's  meek  tread 
The  hour  it  opened  to  receive  my  father's  body— DEAD. 

Sept.  23, 1853. 


LILLA. 


LOVELY  Lilla,  why  keep  smiling  ? 
All  my  path  to  gloom  beguiling ; 
As  your  mouth  its  bright  joy  flashes, 
Every  ripple  o'er  me  dashes — 
Makes  me  helpless  while  I  gaze  on 
Nature's  acted  diapason  ; 
But  the  bliss  a  bane  instills— 
Lilla  smiles  while  Lilla  kills. 


Ah  !  those  eyes  with  rapture  thrill  me — 
Take  them  off,  or  else  they'll  kill  me ; 
But  not  yet,  for  there's  about  them 
That  to  make  me  die  without  them ! 
Dear,  remember  what  you're  doing, 
You  are  killing  while  I'm  wooing — 
If  you  close  those  eyes  of  blue, 
Don't  you  know  you  close  mine  too  ? 


Such  an  earthly,  heavenly,  human, 
Lovely,  wicked,  artless  woman 


48  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 

i 

As  you,  Lilla,  lights  our  blindness 

Rarely  here,  to  kill  with  kindness  ! 

Every  glance  both  wins  and  wounds  me — 

Life  "or  Death  in  you  surrounds  me — 

While  one  word  all  life  would  give, 

Had  you  the  heart  to  make  me  live.  j 


49 


HAUNTED. 
, . 

I  AM  haunted  by  a  spirit, 

Everywhere  I  go  ; 
That  I'm  near  it,  yet  not  near^it, 

I  too  sadly  know. 

When  I'm  hushed  and  sorrow-laden, 

'Tis  a  solace  there ; 
When  my  heart  would  clasp  its  maiden 

Figure — it  is  air. 
Now  deluded,  now  hope-nurtured — 

I  am  cursed  and  blessed, 
Till  I  crave  for  this  o'er-tortured 

Frame,  eternal  rest. 

Yet  the  spirit  looms  about  me, 

Like  a  thought  decreeing, 

As  I  from  it — it  without  me — 
Cannot  have  a  being. 

I  am  in  the  city's  mazes, 

'Mid  ten  thousand  men — 

There  the  spirit's  sweet,  sad  face  is 
Smiling,  just  as  when, 

In  the  midnight,  it  from  study 
All  my  soul  has  drawn ; 
5 


50  FAITH    AND   FANCY. 

Or  when  it,  at  morning  ruddy, 
Smiles  a  rival  dawn. 

Sometimes  it  is  sad'  and  lonely — 

Sometimes  like  a  psalm, 
A  sacred,  solemn  joy — this  only 

When  I'm  very  calm  ; 
Sometimes  'tis  as  bright  as  dew,  that 

Pushed  from  opening  bud, 
Steals  the  light  it  first  falls  through,  that 

Gilds  it  ere  it  kiss  the  sod  ; 

Sometimes  'tis  a  gloomy  grandeur- 
Sorrow  unconfessed — 

Whose  loud  silence  would  command  your 
Life  to  calm  its  breast ; 

Sometimes  smiling  as  a  dreaming 

Child — the  thoughts,  alas, 
Of  the  soul  on  lips  are  beaming 

That  they  cannot  pass  ; 
Sometimes — but,  0  heart,  some  feature 

Bless  in  silent  prayer ! 
All  times  seeming — 'tis  some  creature 

Rare,  exceeding  fair ! 

So,  two  shadows'  dim  distraction 
Dial  every  motion ; — 

One,  which  guides  my  body's  action, 
One,  my  soul's  devotion. 


LOVE'S   IMAGINATION. 


LOVE'S  IMAGINATION. 


WHERE  the  mist  is  list'ning 

To  the  etolic  hills, 
Where  the  spray 'is  glist'ning 

O'er  the  joyous  rills, 
Where  the  budding  flowers 

Nodding  by  the  streams, 
Look  like  infants  waking 

From  their  rosy  dreams; 
There  may  hearts  grow  fonder, 
There  may  poet  ponder, 
There  may  fancy  squander, 

All  its  jewels  rare, 
But  there  I  may  not  wander 

If  my  love's  not  there. 


Where  the  tall  pines  shiver, 
When  the  winter's  breath 

Wraps  the  once  glad  river 
Into  icy  death; 

Where  the  caverns  labor 
With  a  restless  pray'r, 


62  FAITH  AND  FANCY. 

When  the  hunted  ocean 
Seeks  a  shelter  there; 
There,  though  desolation, 
Mocks  all  contemplation, 
Love's  imagination 

Mellows  place  and  time, 
And  in  its  own  creation 
Makes  the  gloom  sublime  ! 


CELIA'S  TEA.  68 


"MAY  GOD  BLESS  US.' 


LADY  mine,  say  it  ever,  pray  it  ever,  it  hath  meaning, 
For  the  lowly,  for  the  holy,  and  to  all  on  virtue  leaning, 
But  from  thy  lips  to  me  it  hath  a  hope  all  else  above, 
For  God  is  love,  and  truly  blesses  those  who  truly  love. 

ii. 

Love's  the  secret  of  existence  1    What  are  vineyards — 

spacious  portals — 
To  one  happy  tear,  one  honest  blush,  that  blends  two 

trusting  mortals  ? 

Oh,  he's  infidel,  who  loves  not,  to  himself  and  God  above, 
For  God  is  love,  and  truly  blesses  those  who  truly  love. 


CELIA'S  TEA. 

CELIA  makes  such  brain-enlivening  tea, 

That  when  one's  ta'en  the  draught  celestial  up, 

He  feels  so  happy,  that  it  oft  struck  me, 

She  must  have  poured  her  heart  into  the  cup. 
5* 


54  FAITH  AND   FANCY. 


A  NEW  LIFE. 


Is  it  fancy,  am  I  dreaming, 

Do  I  tread  the  realms  of  faery — 
Do  my  hopings  mock  my  wild  heart  with  the  echoes  of 

itself ; 
Is  my  soul  lit  by  the  beaming 

Of  your  radiant  face,  fair  Lilla  ? 

Or,  am  I  witched,  like  pilgrim,  by  the  lagoon's  midnight 
elf? 


Sweet  words  are  singing  o'er  me, 

And  beside  me  and  before  me, 

Yet  I  fear  to  think  them  truthful,  lest  I  wake  to  find  me 
wrong; 

And  the  bliss  of  the  first  minute, 

When  my  heart  caught  them  within  it, 
Would  woo  me  to  eternal  sleep,  to  ever  dream  such  song. 


God  is  loving — God  is  jealous, 

And  we're  every  mortal  fashioned 
In  the  likeness  of  the  Moulder  1  and  our  sympathies  so 
bent, 


A   NEW  LIFE.  55 

Can  my  words  be  over  zealous, 

Or  my  love  be  too  impassioned  ? 
No,  I  cannot  outstrip  nature,  though  I  fail  to  be  content 


I  have  had  my  dreams  of  glory, 

And  have  quaffed  my  youthful  chalice — 
What  bitter  dregs  lay  thickening  underneath  its  starry 

foam? 
And  my  life  broke,  like  the  story 

Of  that  oriental  palace, 

Whose  magic  marble  fabric  sank,  and  left  no  trace  of 
home. 


In  my  thoughts'  dim,  lonely  prison, 
Where  I  dwelt,  a  voice  has  risen, 
As  the  angel's  unto  Peter,  giving  comfort,  hope,  and 

cheer ; 

And  so  full  of  light's  the  tremor, 
It  now  pulses  through  the  dreamer, 
He'd  bless  the  thought  that  chains  him  to  have  that 
angel  near. 


Was  your  heart  so  sympathetic 
That  it  caught  my  words  unspoken, 

As  they  welled  up,  seeking  utterance  love-confused  to 

very  fear  ? 

Was  it  you  that  said  "  I  love  thee" — 
Was  it  I  that  said  "  I  love  thee  ;" 

Or,  did  we  each  the  other's  heart  unburden  to  the  ear  ? 


56  FAITH    AND  FANCY. 


When  you  twined  your  arms  about  me 
Saying  life  was  dark  without  me — 

That  /  was  the  one  comforter  you  prayed  of  God  to 

give- 
That  among  the  thousands  fleeing 
Past,  you  knew  me  as  that  being  ; 

My  heart,  beneath  the  revelation,  paused  to  say  "  I  live  1" 


There's  a  strange  new  life  upon  me, 

With  a  clarion-toned  suffusion 
Of  joy,  that  cannot  sound  itself  with  words  of  mortal 

speech  ; 
But  it  is  no  fancy  won  me, 

No  mere  student-bred  delusion  ; 
"Tis  thy  vatic  words  that  make  a  dual  future  in  my  reach. 


What  a  bounteously  decreeing 

Gift  hath  love,  when  it  receiving 

Love  for  love,  transfigures  us  to  things  undreamed  be- 
fore? 
Now  I've  two  lives  in  my  being, 

You  have  two  lives  in  your  living, 
And  yet  we  have  but  one  dearjife  between  us  evermore. 


THE   GOD-CHILD   OF   JULY.  51 


THE  GOD-CHILD  OF  JULY. 

A  BIBTH-DAY  On*, 

ON  the  middle  day  of  the  middle  month 

Of  the  heavenly-fashioned  summer, 
When  vines  were  scaling  the  antique  eaves, 
And  earth  lay  hi  shade  under  motionless  leaves, 
And  the  sap  of  the  sod, 
By  the  blessing  of  God, 

Ran  leaping  and  romping  through  branch-woven  bowers, 
Was  tittering  in  tendrils  and  laughing  hi  flowers  : 
Like  young  happy  children  love-linked  to  each  other, 
Who  spring  from  to  brighten, 
And  clinging  to  lighten, 
With  ever  fresh  pride,  the  rich  breast  of  their  mother. 

In  such  a  midday  of  the  middle  month 

Of  the  golden-dowered  summer, 
My  better  angel  was  sent  from  above, 
Born  to  the  Earth  with  her  mission  of  love ; 
And  Earth,  with  the  favors  of  rich  July, 

Arrayed  the  gentle  comer. 

The  mingled  radiance  of  the  illumined  space 

Centred  on  her  face, 
With  the  blue  of  the  skies 
Were  tinct  her  eyes, 


68  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

And  the  staid  and  holy  air 
Filled  her  with  prayer  ; 
The  fruitage  of  the  Earth 
Gave  her  ripe  mirth, 
And  the  myriad  floral  dyes 
Numberless  shades  of  pleasantries  ; 
The  mighty  oak  outstretched  its  arms  at  length, 
Standing  strong  sponsor  for  her  strength, 
And  the  trustful  vine 
Taught  her  to  entwine 
Her  soul  around  the  strong  to  beautify  it : 
The  conscious  heat  of  noon  lent  her  full  power  to  defy  it. 

The  freshened  dawn,  in  night-escaped  security, 
Thrilled  her  fresh  heart  with  clarion  tones  of  purity  : 
The  evening  breeze 
Brought  her  revivifying  ease  ; 
The  half-parched  streams,  with  mutual  assistance, 
Made  a  flush  river  to  teach  her  mind  persistence  ; 
And  crowds  of  wealthy  humble  bushes  quaint 
Gave  her  their  unambitious  birthright — self-restraint. 
The  ash  upon  the  mountain's  rugged  side 
Told  her  in  life  and  liberty  to  pride  ; 
And  the  yew,  bending  its  melancholy  head, 
Taught  her  to  weep  the  dead. 
The  wild  plants  of  the  wood 
Showed  her  the  weal  of  solitude, 
And  preached  of  modesty  in  their  fresh  enamels  ; 
The  lightning,  leaping  from  its  ebon  trammels, 
Showed  her,  as  it  unfurled, 
The  electric  lord  and  servant  of  the  world. 
The  rapid  thunder,  that  in  hot  July 
Strikes  earth  with  all  the  ordnance  of  the  sky, 


THE   GOD-CHILD   OF  JULY.  59 

Rolled  its  unseen  artilleries 
Through  the  black  gorges  of  those  weird  Cordilleras 

Of  cloud  which  mock  imagination — 
Poured  its  mysterious  majesty  of  sound 
The  god-child  of  its  favored  month  around, 

And  woke  the  drowsy  day  to  hearty  acclamation  I 

Ah  me,  so  tended  was  this  tender  creature 

Within  by  heavenly,  without  by  earthly  nature, 

She  grew  a  being  strong  without  alloy, 

To  bless  in  sorrow,  to  sustain  in  joy — 

In  wealth  be  calm,  in  poverty  be  rich, 

Until  one  questioned  with  her  which  was  which. 

Within  the  world,  she  is  so  much  above  it 

She  lessens  not  herself,  nor  it  to  love  it ; 

With  faith  surrounding,  leading  all  things  human, 

At  once  a  loving  wife  and  trustful  woman. 

The  anniversary  of  her  natal  day 

Is  rung,  by  the  chimes,  to  the  tunes  passed  away. 

I  pray  of  Heaven,  which  has  vouchsafed  to  me 
The  guardianship  of  such  condensed  variety 
As  the  dear  Past,  to  let  the  Future  be 
Suffused  with  Love,  sublimed  by  Piety. 


July  15th. 


60  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 


BREASTING  THE  WORLD. 


MANY  years  have  burst  upon  my  forehead, 
Years  of  gloom  and  heavy  freighted  grief ; 

And  I  have  stood  them  as  against  the  horrid 
Angry  gales,  the  Peak  of  Teneriffe. 

n. 
Yet  if  all  the  world  had  storm  and  sorrow, 

You  had  none,  my  better  self,  Lenore, 
My  toil  was  as  the  midnight  seeking  morrow, 

You  moon-like  lit  the  way  I  struggled  o'er. 

in. 
Though  as  a  cataract  my  soul  went  lashing 

Itself  through  ravines  desolate  and  gray, 
You  made  me  see  a  beauty  in  the  flashing, 

And  with  your  presence  diamonded  the  spray. 

IV. 

Then,  Lenore,  though  we  have  grown  much  older — 
Though  our  eyes  were  brighter  when  we  met, 

Still  let  us  feel,  shoulder  unto  shoulder 
And  heart  to  heart,  above  the  world  yet ! 


AT    NIAGARA. 


61 


AT  NIAGARA. 

THE  RAPIDS. 
I. 


IN  broken  lines,  like  ghosts  of  buried  nations, 
Struggling  beneath  their  white  and  tangled  palls, 

They  leap  and  roar  to  Earth  their  exaltations, 
And  Earth  e'en  trembles  as  each  spectre  falls. 


With  strength  that  gives  solemnity  to  clangour, 
With  quaint  immensity  that  strangles  mirth, 

Like  mortal  things  they  roar  to  tune  their  anger, 
Like  things  immortal  they  disdain  the  Earth. 


They  bound — as  dallying  in  their  gorgeous  West, 
In  forest  .cradles  and  in  parent  mountains, 

They  heard  old  Ocean  throb  his  regal  breast 
And  call  his  vassals— the  cascades  and  fountains. 


From  crag  to  crag  they  leap  and  spread  the  sound, 
Through  gorge  and  wood  their  flashing  banners  motion, 

Till  here  in  frantic  rivalry  they  bound, 
These  mighty  white-plumed  cohorts,  for  the  ocean. 
6 


62  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 


Surging  along  the  pale  battalions  muster, 

Crowding  each  other,  till  the  strongest  springs 

A-top  his  fellows,  with  heroic  lustre, 

And  dares  the  deeds,  like  Viking,  that  he  sings. 


Like  men,  the  Rapids,  born  amid  restless  valor, 
Flash  o'er  their  foes  with  many  a  frothened  spasm, 

And  linking  all  in  pomp's  majestic  pallor, 

Leap  like  ten  thousand  Romans  down  the  chasm  1 


THE  FALLS. 


There  is  an  awful  eloquence  around — 

Like  earthquake  underneath  the  dreamful  pillows 
Of  some  great  town,  that  deemed  its  strength  profound. 

And  wakes  on  worse  than  frantic  Ocean's  billows. 


The  mists,  like  shadowy  cathedrals  rise, 

And  through  the  vapory  cloisters  prayers  are  pouring : 
Such  as  ne'er  sprang  to  the  eternal  skies, 

From  old  Earth's  passionate  and  proud  adoring. 


There  is  a  voice  of  Scripture  in  the  flood, 
With  solemn  monotone  of  glory  bounding, 


AT    NIAGARA. 

Making  all  else  an  awe-hushed  solitude 
•  To  hear  its  everlasting  faith  resounding. 

rv. 

There  is  a  quiet  on  my  heart  like  death, 
My  eyes  are  gifted  with  a  strange  expansion, 

As  if  they  closed  upon  my  life's  last  breath, 
And  oped  to  measure  the  eternal  mansion. 


I  see  so  much  I  fear  to  trust  my  vision, 
I  hear  so  much  I  doubt  my  mortal  ear, 

I  feel  so  much,  my  soul  in  strong  submission 
Bends  in  a  silent,  death-like  rapture  here. 


64  FAITH  AND   FANCY. 


SHANE'S  HEAD.4 


SOKNB— Before  Dublin  Castle.  Night.    A  vassal  of  Shane  (TNeWa  dtocovera 
his  chiefs  head  u<pon  a  pole. 


GOD'S  wrath  upon  the  Saxon  I  may  they  never  know  the 

pride, 

Of  dying  on  the  battle-field,  their  broken  spears  beside  ; 
When  victory  gilds  the  gory  shroud  of  every  fallen  brave, 
Or  death  no  tales  of  conquered  clans  can  whisper  to  his 

grave. 
May  every  light  from  Cross  of  Christ  that  saves  the  heart 

of  man, 
Be  hid  in  clouds  of  blood  before  it  reach  the  Saxon 

clan ; 
For  sure,  O  God ! — and  you  know  all  whose  thought  for 

all  sufficed, — 
To  expiate  these  Saxon  sins,  they'd  want  another  Christ. 

ii. 

Is  it  thus,  0  Shane  the  haughty !  Shane  the  valiant !  that 
we  meet — 

Have  my  eyes  been  lit  by  Heaven  but  to  guide  me  to 
defeat ; 

Have  /  no  chief — or  you  no  clan,  to  give  us  both  de- 
fence, 

Or  must  I,  too,  be  statued  here  with  thy  cold  eloquence  ? 


SHANE'S  HEAD.  65 

Thy  ghastly  head  grins  scorn  upon  old  Dublin's  Castle- 
tower, 

Thy  shaggy  hair  is  wind-tost,  aud  thy  brow  seems  rough 
with  power ; 

Thy  wrathful  lips,  like  sentinels,  by  foulest  treach'ry 
stung, 

Look  rage  upon  the  world  of  wrong,  but  chain  thy  fiery 
tongue. 

in. 

That  tongue  whose  "Ulster  accent  woke  the  ghost  of 

Columbkill, 
Whose  warrior  words  fenced  round  with  spears  the  oaks 

of  Perry  Hill ; 
Whose  reckless  tones  gave  life  and  death  to  vassals  and 

to  knaves, 

And  hunted  hordes  of  Saxons  into  holy  Irish  graves. 
The  Scotch  marauders  whitened  when  his  war-cry  met 

their  ears, 
And  the  death-bird,  like  a  vengeance,  poised  above  his 

stormy  cheers, 
Ay,  Shane,  across  the  thundering  sea,  out-chanting  it 

your  tongue, 
Flung  wild  uu-Saxon  war-whoopiugs  the  Saxon  Court 

among. 

FT. 

Just  think,  O  Shane !  the  same  moon  shines  on  Liffey 

as  on  Foyle, 
And  lights  the  ruthless  knaves  on  both,  our  kinsmen  to 

6* 


66  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 

And  you  the  hope,  voice,  battle-axe,  the  shield  of  us  and 
ours, 

A  murdered,  trunkless,  blinding  sight  above  these  Dub- 
lin towers. 

Thy  face  is  paler  than  the  moon,  my  heart  is  paler  still — 

My  heart  ?  I  had  no  heart — 'twas  yours,  'twas  yours  ! 
to  keep  or  kill. 

And  you  kept  it  safe  for  Ireland,  Chief, — your  life,  your 
soul,  your  pride, — 

But  they  sought  it  in  thy  bosom,  Shane — with  proud 
O'Neill  it  died. 


You  were  turbulent  and  haughty,  proud,  and  keen  as 

Spanish  steel, 
But  who  had  right  of  these,  if  not  our  Ulster's  Chief — 

O'Neill  ? 
Who  reared  aloft  the  "  Bloody  Hand"  until  it  paled  the 

sun, 

And  shed  such  glory  on  Tyrone,  as  chief  had  never  done. 
He  was  "  turbulent"  with  traitors — he  was  "  haughty" 

with  the  foe — 
He  was  "  cruel,"  say  ye  Saxons  ?   Ay !  he  dealt  ye  blow 

for  blow  1 
He  was  "  rough"  and  "  wild,"  and  who's  not  wild,  to  see 

his  hearthstone  razed  ? 
He  was  "merciless  as  fire" — ah,  ye  kindled  him, — he 

blazed ! 
He  was  "  proud :"  yes,  proud  of  birthright,  and  because 

he  flung  away 

Your  Saxon  stars  of  princedom,  as  the  rock  does  mock- 
ing spray. 


SHANE'S  HEAD.  67 

He  was  wild,  insane  for  vengeance, — ay  !  and  preached 

it  till  Tyrone 
Was  ruddy,  ready,  wild  too,  with  "  Red  hands"  to  clutch 

their  own. 

VI. 

"The  Scots  are  on  the  border,  Shane" — ye  saints,  he 

makes  no  breath — 
I  remember  when  that  cry  would  wake  him  up  almost 

from  death : 
Art  truly  dead  and  cold  ?  O  Chief  1  art  thou  to  Ulster 

lost? 
"  Dost  hear,  dost  hear  ?    By  Randolph  led,  the  troops 

the  Foyle  have  crossed !" 
He's  truly  deadl  he  must  be  dead!  nor  is  his  ghost 

about — 
And  yet  no  tomb  could  hold  his  spirit  tame  to  such  a 

shout : 
The  pale  face  droopeth  northward — ah!  his  soul  must 

loom  up  there, 
By  old  Armagh,  or  Antrim's  glynns,  Lough  Foyle,  or 

Bann  the  Fair ! 
I'll  speed  me  Ulster-wards,  your  ghost  must  wander  there, 

proud  Shane, 
In  search  of  some  O'Neill,  through  whom  to  throb  its 

hate  again  I 


68  FAITH    AND  FANCY. 


SAINT  ANNE'S  WELL.* 


ADOWN  the  loved  valley  of  sweet  Glan-nis-mole, 
The  Dodder's  wild  waters  in  bright  rapture  roll ; 
And  woo  the  brown  heath  in  its  winding  career, 
.  Like  a  young  lover  stealthily  pressing  his  dear : 
Or  yet,  like  the  red  Indian  tracing  the  spot, 
Where  the  white  man  has  ravished  his  primeval  cot ; 
And  it  steals  and  it  foams,  half  in  fear,  half  in  joy, 
Like  a  girl  all  beauty,  all  pride  like  a  boy. 
Looming  over  this  valley,  where  Solitude  reigns, 
In  all  the  wild  stillness  that  Nature  enchains, 
Kippure  has  his  throne, — where  defying  the  gale, 
Castle-Kelly  enwraps  with  weird  shadows  the  vale, — 
His  head  in  the  clouds,  as  though  bound  with  a  crown, 
His  sceptre  the  rays  of  the  sun  streaming  down, 
His  courtiers,  Bal-mannoch,  Cornaun,  See-Finane, 
From  the  Brakes  to  green  Tallaght  he  boasts  his  domain : 
And  the  Golden  Spears,  glistening  like  sentinels,  stand 
Near  the  throne  of  the  chief  of  this  bright  valley-land. 
With  his  face  to  the  Liffey,  his  back  to  Glancree, 
Echo  sings,  as  bard  should,  of  his  proud  chieftaincy ; 
And  the  wind  sweeping  down — like   the  gray  wizard 

powers 
Of  Homer,  or  Ossian,  that  Homer  of  ours — 


SAINT  ANNE'S  WELL.  09 

Thrills  the  heather,  like  harp-strings,  that  vibrating  loud, 

Makes  invisible  chorus  between  cliff  and  cloud, 

And  hover  with  many  a  mystical  rann 

O'er  the  fountain  of  goodness— the  Well  of  St.  Anne. 

n. 

The  well  calmly  springs  on  the  wild  brocken  side, 

Like  a  tear  on  the  cheek  of  a  soul  sanctified — 

A  sister  of  charity,  given  by  bliss 

To  cure  with  its  virtues,  and  cool  with  its  kiss  I 

And  dear  is  this  valley ! — ah,  yes,  ever  dear 

Are  the  scenes  that  are  linked  with  a  smile  or  a  tear — 

That  thrilled  us  with  pleasure,  or  filled  us  with  pain, 

In  the  noonday  of  life,  and  youth's  royal  domain  ! 

What  can  be  more  dear  than  that  one  lonely  place, 

Where  youth  met  its  reflex  in  some  young  loved  face  ? 

Saw  the  tremors,  and  wooings,  the  kissings,  and  then 

Saw  the  quarrels  and  sobs,  yea,  and  kissing  again ; 

Where  the  vale  was  our  study — our  music  the  brooks — 

The  graveyard  our  library — tombstones  our  books ; 

And  the  Ruin,  a  monitor  graybeard  profound, 

Full  of  pride  in  his  charge  of  the  records  around. 

And  our  Wells— h6ly  Wells !  that  our  loved  legends  link— 

Making  sinew  and  soul  of  our  past  glory  drink — 

To  the  heroes  that  fought,  and  the  lances  that  sprung 

As  the  sage  counselled  battle,  or  poet  war  sung  1 

They  are  dear  to  our  hearts  :  and  remind  dreaming  man 

Of  the  Action  he's  heir  to  !— loved  Well  of  St.  Anne. 


Its  waters  are  clear,  and  as  pure  as  the  soul 

Of  the  saint  that  endowed  it.    Beneath  a  green  knoll 


70  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

It  peacefully  slumbers  in  hallowed  repose, 
And  though  always  brimming,  it  never  overflows ; 
For  a  sidelong  trickle  leads  off  the  blest  flow, 
When  its  breast  is  too  full,  to  the  Dodder  below ; 
And  skirts  by  the  little  church  Kilmosantan, 
Where  the  green  ivy  close  the  old  ruin  doth  span, 
And  clings  like  a  lover,  whose  constancy  wages 
A  war  with  old  Time — growing  fonder  through  ages  1 
On  these  lonely  waters  the  saint  left  a  spell, 
Which  faith  have  the  people,  and  thence  to  the  well 
They  fly  for  its  draughts  ;   for  the  power  Saint  Anne 
Bestowed  on  the  spring  was,  that  if  mortal  man 
Was  maimed,  ill,  but  faith  had,  he'd  surely  get  ease 
If  he  creep  from  the  church  to  the  well  on  his  knees. 
Methinks  few  e'er  try — for  devious  the  path 
To  the  sickling  or  sage ;  and  the  maimed  one  who  hath 
Strength  eno'  to  proceed,  needs  less  the  spell,  than 
Stout  patience  he'd  want  to  suit  goodly  Saint  Anne. 

IV. 

Sweet  Vale !  Holy  Well !  shall  this  heart  e'er  forget, 
This  mind  to  thee  die,  or  my  sun  of  thought  set 
On  the  days  I  have  lingered  beside  thy  clear  tide, 
Or  with  those  my  heart  clung  to,  clomb  thy  hill  side  ? 
Pointing  out  the  old  raths,  where  the  sage  peasant  told 
Me,  the  fairies  and  spreethauns  their  wild  revels  hold ; 
When  I  merrily  laughed,  and  he  solemnly  chid, 
Adjuring  me  gravely,  to  "  mind  what  I  did," 
Lest  the  "wee  folk"  in  vengeance  should  give  me  a  stroke. 
Then  I  danced  on  the  rath,  half  in  doubt,  half  in  joke, 
And  he,  shaking  his  head,  strolled  away,  chiding  still, 
And  praying,  "  Heaven  help  my  irreverent  will." 
Shall  those  scenes  pass  away,  when  afar  I  am  gone  ? 


SAINT  ANNE'S  WELL.  tl 

No  !  as  steel  to  the  magnet,  I  ever  cling  on  I 
No !  my  heart  never  shall  let  that  picture  decay ; 
Though  I  float  the  St.  Lawrence,  the  famed  thrush's  lay 
Of  Glan-nis-mole's  valley  shall  still  charm  mine  ear, 
And  the  wild  Dodder's  carol  yet  louder  I'll  hear 
Than  Niagara's  chorus :  the  ivy's  fresh  love, 
To  my  heart,  as  its  temple,  wherever  I  rove, 
Will  cling  like  a  mantle  to  warm  its  veins, 
With  love  for  its  youth's  home,  while  feeling  remains : 
The  church  where  I've  dreamed  all  the  summer  days  fair, 
The  cascades  that  burst  like  some  wild  Irish  air — 
Which  flashing  and  fading,  its  force  is  scarce  felt, 
The  passions  so  quick  into  low  murmurs  melt — 
The  furze-gilded  uplands — the  brier-bound  brooks, 
The  moss-mottled  crags,  where  the  sun  his- last  looks — 
The  Brakes,  where  the  hills,  shutting  Wicklow  out,  stand, 
Like  the  bulwarks  and  guards  of  some  Bard's  promised 

land— 

And  each  hill,  whose  gray  brow,  bound  with  heath  pur- 
ple-brown, 

Seems  a  king  with  his  iron  but  silken-cased  crown — 
Ah  1  where'er  I  may  roam,  these  in  fancy  I'll  scan, 
And  my  mouth  shall  be  still  cool  with  draughts  froro 
Saint  Anne. 


FAITH  AND  FANCT. 


WINTER  THOUGHTS. 

I.-THE  DEAD  YEAE. 


YET  another  chief  is  carried 
From  life's  battle  on  his  spears, 

To  the  great  Yalhalla's  cloisters 
Of  the  ever-living  years. 


Yet  another  year — the  mummy 
Of  a  warlike  giant,  vast — 

Is  niched  within  the  pyramid 
Of  the  ever-growing  past. 


Years  roll  through  the  palm  of  Ages, 
As  the  dropping  ros'ry  speeds 

Through  the  cold  and  passive  fingers 
Of  a  hermit  at  his  beads. 


One  year  falls  and  ends  its  penance, 
One  arises  with  its  needs, 

And  'tis  ever  thus  prays  Nature, 
Only  telling  years  for  beads. 


WINTEll   THOUGHTS.  73 

V. 

Years,  like  acorns  from  the  branches 

Of  the  giant  oak  of  Time, 
Fill  the  earth  with  healthy  seedlings 

For  a  future  more  sublime. 


U.-A  FEOSTY  NIGHT. 

I. 

As  one  that  worketh  miracles,  the  moon 
Transfigures  all  the  silence  into  light ; 
And  filagrecd  with  frost  the  hill-sides  white, 
And  sloping  uplands  flecked  with  drifted  snow, 
Seem,  through  their  statued  chill,  to  whine  a  low 

And  plaintive  croon. 

ii. 

The  groves  that  were  in  summer-time  all  song, 
Profuse  in  clear  soprano  tones  of  glee, 
Now  hoarsely  dull,  like  voice-cracked  choirs  dree 
Their  shivering  existences,  and  make 
Night  mournful,  as  the  dirges  slowly  take 

Their  woes  along. 

in. 

The  mountain  gorges,  that  like  arteries  ran 

With  June-breath,  hot  as  blood,  are  weirdly  numb, 
And  here  and  there  the  trickling  streamlets  come 
And  break  the  frost  in  many  a  wild  device, 
Strugglitig  a-through  thin  barricades  of  ice 

That  all  the  gullies  span. 


14  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 

IV. 

The  lonely  trees,  scant-robed  in  crispy  snow, 
Stretching  their  bare  arms  upward  to  the  sky, 
Seem  like  poor  buried  souls,  who  did  not  die, 
That  waking,  burst  their  sepulchres,  and  strive, 
With  piteous  plaints,  to  prove  themselves  alive 

To  their  mad  woe. 

v. 

As  o'er  the  ghostly  landscape  peers  the  sight, 
The  moonlight  teaming  an  unbroken  flood — 
The  stars  that  in  their  planet  coteries  brood 
Over  earth's  solitude — the  distant  trackless 
Roll  to  Thought's  shore  the  ebbless  tide— Eternity, 

This  vast,  pale  night. 


III.— SNOW  ON  THE  GROUND. 


LIKE  a  corpse  the  stark  earth  lieth, 
Free  from  toiling  Life's  deceits  ; 

And  the  Air,  grown  pale  from  watching, 
Swathes  her  round  with  snowy  sheets. 


Fold  on  fold  wraps  mutely  round  her, 
Her  calm  breast  no  life-hope  rears, 

And  she  seems  from  heaven's  weeping, 
To  be  tombed  in  frozen  tears. 


WINTER  THOUGHTS.  75 


But  though  rigid  cold  her  bosom, 
Gone  her  music — fled  her  bloom ; 

Still  the  shrouded  Earth,  like  Juliet, 
Is  but  tranced  within  the  tomb. 


IV.— SUMMER  ALWAYS. 


WHILE  the  wind  is  fiercely  howling, 

Lilla  dear,  come  anear — 
While  the  wolf-like  wind  is  howling, 
Round  the  cottage  gables  prowling, 
And  the  wintry  clouds  are  scowling 

On  the  mere  : 
Let  us,  waking  up  the  embers, 

Love  and  youth  and  books  revere, 
Feel  that  howling  bleak  Decembers 
Cannot  make  a  winter  here, 
Lilla  dear. 


WTiile  the  outside  world  is  shivering, 

Lilla  dear,  come  anear — 
While  the  beggar  Earth  is  shivering, 
Like  a  miser,  old  and  quivering, 
TJnto  Tune  his  debt  delivering 

Of  the  year  : 

Let  us,  clinging  close  together, 
Though  perchance  we  drop  a  tear 


76  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 

O'er  the  past,  find  summer  weather 
E'er  in  living,  loving  here, 
Lilla  dear. 


V.— FACES  IN  THE  FIEE. 

I. 
I  AM  gazing  all  the  night-time, 

At  the  faces  in  the  fire — 
Whilst  the  roaring  rain-storm  dashes 
On  the  shaking  window-sashes, 
And  the  wakeful  aerial  ocean 
Wracks  the  forest  that  it  wrestles  ; 
And  the  sea,  with  wrathful  motion, 
Shakes  and  breaks  the  lab'riug  vessels, 
Till  the  crowded  timbers,  surging, 
Send  the  people,  wildly  splurging, 

In  the  waves,  till  they  expire. 


And  I  think  how  like  the  life-flame 

Are  those  red  shapes  I  admire  : — 
First,  they're  merely  indicated, 
Then,  like  childhood,  grow  elated 
With  the  fresh  heat  that  imbues  them, 
Then  like  youth  hot  flames  infuse  them, 
Then,  like  men,  a  steady  burning 
Glows  a-through  them,  till  the  turning 
Toint  of  being,  makes  gray  gashes, 
And  they  crumble  into  ashes 
Like  mere  faces  in  the  fire. 


WASHINGTON.  77 


WASHINGTON.* 


ART  in  its  mighfj  privilege  receives 

Painter  and  painted  in  its  bonds  forever ; 
A  girl  by  Raphael  in  his  glory  lives — 
A  Washington  nnto  his  limner  gives 
The  Ages'  love  to  crown  his  best  endeavor 


The  German  Emperor,  with  whose  counterpart 
The  gorgeous  Titian  made  the  world  acquainted, 

Boasted  himself  immortal  by  the  art ; 

But  he  who  on  thy  features  cast  his  heart, 
Was  made  immortal  by  the  head  he  painted  ! 

m. 

For  thou  before  whose  tinted  shade  I  bow, 

Wert  sent  to  show  the  wise  of  every  nation 
How  a  young  world  might  leave  the  axe  and  plough 
To  die  for  Truth !     So  great,  so  loved  wert  thou, 
That  he  who  touched  thee  won  a  reputation. 


The  steady  fire  that  battled  in  thy  breast, 

Lit  up  our  gloom  with  radiance,  good  though  gory  ; 

7* 


18  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 

Like  some  red  sun  which  the  dull  earth  caressed 
Into  a  wealthy  adoration  blest 

To  be  its  glory's  great  reflected  glory. 


Thou — when  the  earthly  heaven  of  man's  soul — 

The  heaven  of  home,  of  liberty,  of  honor — 
Shuddered  with  darkness — didst  the  clouds  uproll 
And  burst  such  light  upon  the  nation's  dole 
That  every  State  still  feels  thy  breath  upon  her. 

VI. 

Could  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  Council — bland, 

Firm  as  a  rock,  but  as  deep  stream  thy  manner ; 
Or  when,  at  trembling  Liberty's  command, 
Facing  grim  havoc  like  a  flag-staff  stand, 

And  squadrons  rolling  round  thee  like  a  banner ! 


Could  I  have  been  with  thee  on  Princeton's  morn ! 

Or  swelled  with  silence  in  the  midnight  muster  ; 
Beheld  thee  ever,  every  fate  adorn — 
Or  on  retreat,  or  winged  victory  borne — 

The  warrior  throbbing  with  the  sage's  lustre : 


Could  I  have  shouted  in  the  wild  acclaim 

That  rent  the  sky  o'er  Germantown  asunder  ; 

Or  when,  like  cataract,  'gainst  the  sheeted  flame 

You  dashed,  and  chill'd  the  victor-shout  to  shame, 

On  Monmouth's  day  of  palsy-giving  thunder  : 


WASHINGTON.  79 

IX. 

Could  I  have  followed  thee  through  town  and  camp ! 

Fought  where  you  led,  and  heard  the  same  drums  rattle  ; 
Charged  with  a  wild  but  passion-steadied  tramp, 
And  witnessed,  rising  o'er  death's  ghastly  damp, 

The  stars  of  empire  through  the  clouds  of  battle  ! 

x. 
Oh  !  to  have  died  thus  'ncath  thy  hero  gaze, 

And  won  a  smile,  my  bursting  youth  would  rather 
Than  to  have  lived  with  every  other  praise, 
Saving  the  blessing  of  those  epic  days 

When  you  blest  all,  and  were  the  nation's  father. 

XI. 

The  autumn  sun  caresses  Yernon's  tomb, 
Whose  presence  doth  the  country's  honor  leaven : 

Two  suns  they  are,  that  dissipate  man's  gloom  ; 

For  one's  the  index  to  Earth's  free-born  bloom, 
The  other  to  our  burning  hope  in  Heaven  1 

XII. 

Thy  dust  may  moulder  in  the  hollow  rock  ; 

But  every  day  thy  soul  makes  some  new  capture ! 
Nations  unborn  will  swell  thy  thankful  flock, 
And  Fancy  tremble  that  she  cannot  mock 

Thy  history's  Truth  that  will  enchant  with  rapture. 

XIII. 

How  vain  the  daring  to  compute  in  words 

The  height  of  homage  that  the  heart  would  render  I 

And  yet  how  proud — to  feel  no  speech  affords 

Harmonious  measure  to  the  subtle  chords 
That  fill  the  soul  beneath  thy  placid  splendor ! 


FAITH   AND   FANCY. 


THE  PLAINT  OF  THE  WILD-FLOWER. 


I  WAS  not  born  for  the  town, 
Where  all  that's  pure  and  humble's  trodden  down 

My  home  is  in  the  woods — 
The  over-arching,  cloistered  solitudes  ; 

Where  the  full-toned  psalm 
Of  Nature  at  her  matin  broke  the  calm 

Of  cloudy  pillowed  Night, 
With  calmness  made  more  voluble  by  light : 

And  where  the  Minstrel  Noon, 
Made  every  young  stem  spring,  as  to  a  tune ; 

Ay,  where  our  joys  were  led 
To  suit  the  fluted  measures  of  the  orb  overhead. 

I  am  forlorn 

Here  'mid  the  waking  jargon  of  the  day  ; 
Noon  brings  no  light,  no  song  of  birds  at  play  ; 
My  plume  is  in  the  dust :  I  pine  and  pray 
For  the  old  woods,  the  grand  old  woods  away 

Where  I  was  born. 


Here  I  am  dying :  I  want  room — 
Room  for  the  air  of  heaven,  for  the  bloom 


PHE   PLAINT   OF  THE   WILD-FLOWER.  81 

Of  never-tiring  nature  ;  room 
For  the  verdure-freighted  clouds,  and  thunder-boom 

That  sounds  relief  to  drouthy  earth  ; 
Room  for  the  sunlight  and  th'  exhaustless  mirth 

Of  laughing  July's  breeze, 
Untangling  the  meshes  of  the  branching  trees  ; 

Room  for  cool  night  and  ruddy  day, 
For  peace,  for  health — aught  naturally  gay  ; 

Room  to  take  vital  breath 
And  look  on  any  thing  not  painted  death  I 

I  am  forlorn — 

I,  who  from  my  earliest  golden  age, 
Sat  by  the  regal  Oak's  foot,  like  a  page, 
And,  mantled  in  moss,  at  the  close  of  day 
Slept  by  my  prince,  in  the  woods  far  away 

Where  I  was  born. 


in. 

Here  is  no  room — no  room 
For  e'en  a  flower's  life  ;  nothing  but  a  tomb. 

0  forest  gods !  look  down, 

And  shield  your  other  offspring  from  the  town. 

Ah  !  would  that  I  could  die 
Where  o'er  my  wreck  the  forest  flowers  might  sigh, 

And  clustering  shrubs  a-near 
Weave  dirges  low,  like  leaves  above  my  bier  ; 

Where  kindly  chestnut-leaves 
Would  shade  the  woe  of  every  plant  that  grieves, 

And  e'en  the  great  Oak's  head 
Let  fall  the  tears  of  dew  when  his  poor  page  is  dead. 

1  am  forlorn : 

Night  brings  no  darkness,  and  the  day  no  light ; 


82  FAITH    AND   FANCY. 

Noon  brings  but  noise,  to  vary  my  affright ; 

I'm  dying  'neath  the  city's  loathsome  blight, 

Far,  0  my  mother  Nature  !  from  thy  sight, 

Far  from  thy  earth,  thy  heaven,  and  the  woodland 

bright 
Where  I  was  born. 


GAME    LAWS.  83 


GAME  LAWS.T 

L 

A-THROUGH  the  crunching  underwood  the  wild  boar  madly 

came, 
With  lashing  tail  and  gleaming  tusks,  stiff  mane  and  eyes 

of  flame. 

n. 
Through  golden  crops,  through  tangled  copse,  he  fiercely 

plunging  tore, 
All  seemed  but  withered  fibres  to  the  rage-expanding 

boar. 

in. 
Through  leafy  screen  and  rough  ravine,  through  lane  and 

plain  the  brute 
Makes  head,  and  in  the  cotter's  field  at  last  eludes 

pursuit. 

IV. 

"  Ho  !  Hans,  be  quick ;  take  in  the  child — bring  out  my 

trusty  gun." 
Hans  fled  and  came,  the  cotter  fired — the  wild  boar's 

race  was  run. 

v. 

But  woe  !  alas,  what  came  to  pass,  the  forest-ranger  saw 
The  deed,  and  shot  the  cotter  down — to  make  him  *'  keep 

the  law." 


84  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 

VI. 

Herr  Graff  and  staff,  feast,  laugh,  and  quaff  that  night 

with  beakers  red : 
The  cotter's  home  is  desolate — its  head,  its  heart  lies 

dead. 

VII. 

'Tis  royal  sport  for  king  and  court  to  hunt  the  grizzly 

boar, 
But  woe  unto  the  poor  man  who  dares  hunt  him  from 

his  door. 


DREAMING   BY  MOONLIGHT.  85 


DREAMING  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


8(jsirs-A  Public  Park  in  the  City. 
PKBSONS—  Two  Students. 


PICTOR. 

LOOK  at  the  pale  Moon  pacing  up  the  skies, 
Like  a  frayed  maiden  who  had  seen  her  sire, 
The  martial  Sun,  the  monarch  of  the  day, 
Hunted  before  the  red  and  spearlike  clouds, 
Whose  only  glory  is  the  blood  he  shed  : 
See  her,  all  pale  and  beautifully  wan, 
O'erlooking  where  her  overpowered  sire, 
Ennobling  the  foes  he  crimsoned  with  his  gore, 
Sank  ;  but,  in  sinking,  died  the  victor's  death, 
And  dragged  them  with  him  from  all  earthly  gaze. 


She  looks  divine  1 


She  is  divine  1 and  now,  see  her  yet  white, 

As  though  her  native  majesty  was  froze 
With  thinking  on  her  sire's  red  sacrifice — 
Or  though  the  horror  of  the  mighty  death 
Frightened  away  her  outraged  blood,  and  sent 
II  or  woman's  uiilken  feeling  through  her  frame  ; 
8 


86  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

As  on  she  hurries  panting  from  the  East, 
And  up  th'  uncertain  blue  with  steady  pace, 
Made  regular  in  weakness,  she  persists 
To  preach  her  sorrows  to  the  starry  host, 
And  try  unto  her  filial,  piteous  cause 
Of  vengeance,  them  to  win. 


Oh  !  would  we  could  her  frenzied  pleading  hear — 
For  see,  yon  stars  seem  gaining  greater  light 
From  the  infusion  of  her  earnest  speech  ; 
She  stirs  their  souls  ;  they  glimmer  with  her  thought, 
And  nod,  as  to  each  other,  their  applause  1 
Oh !  how  her  orphaned  virginhood  must  rise 
Into  the  woman's  proud,  full-statured  force, 
Making  her  importunities,  commands  ! — 
How  she  must  picture  the  old  hero's  death, 
And  make  the  roused  heavens  think  he  lives  again, 
Pleading  his  own  cause  with  accustomed  fire ! 
She  grows  with  her  desire — expands  in  agony, 
And  reaches  with  her  light  the  furthest  star. 


But  they  are  motionless — they  seem  so  rapt 
With  her  enthusiasm,  they  bestir  them  not ; 
Her  eloquence  has  fixed  them  where  they  stand. 


Aye  doth  she  kill  the  cause  by  the  effect 
She  makes.     Her  bright,  divine  intelligence 
Run  lose  upon  the  sky — the  stars  are  vague 
To  aught  but  listening :  /  blame  them  not, 


DREAMING    BY   MOONLIGHT.  87 

For  who  could  stir  while  yet  her  voice  holds  on, 
And  flings  its  weighty  chains  of  eloquence  around 
them.   « 


"Would  I  were  Yenus,  and  I'd  win  them  all, 
As  she  did  Paris,  to  my  suit ;  I'd  make 
Their  test  of  vassalage  and  price  of  court 
An  unconditioned  service  to  the  Moon. 
I  would,  by  all  the  beauty  of  her  crest ! 
I  would,  or  if  they  lacked  the  val'rous  son^ 
Or  paced  in  stolid  ease  while  yet  she  prayed 
I'd  change  them,  as  the  Cyprian  fair  she  did,8 
To  moody  oxen,  and  confer  them  horns 
Less  hard  than  their  own  hearts. — But  look  I 

LEON. 

Mars  reddens  :  like  a  man,  his  face  suffused 

With  all  the  gory  passion  of  his  heart 

That  prompts  his  brain  to  bloodier  deeds 

Than  crimsoning  his  own  cheeks  :  yet  see  the  Moon 

Untired,  with  luminous  distention  praying 

Aid  from  the  tranced  orbs — wasting  her  soul 

Upon  the  statued  crowd,  who  give  no  sign 

They  hearken  to  her  speech,  save  that  their  fronts 

Shiver  in  bliss  her  radiant  tongue  unwombs. 

Would  I  were  Mars!  O  Pictor!  would  I  were, 

And  by  the  heavens  I'd  hold  in  my  own  right,. 

I'd  leap  from  out  my  hero  conch  of  clouds, 

And  marshalling  the  Scythian  hordes  in  air, 

I'd  drive  these  laggard  constellations  hence, 

And  pale  them  in  the  visage  of  the  Sun 

Avenged  !  ( Muses  for  a  few  moments.) 


88  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

A  hero's  name  can  conquer  worlds  ; 
The  action  dies  not,  though  the  body  rots  : 
And  I  would  shout  "  The  Sun"  through  every  space 
Till  all  the  echoes  wrangled  into  one — 
Like  foes  towards  a  well-fought  battle's  close. 
Then  like  a  Joshua  I'd  command  it — stand — 
Making  that  day  eternity  in  Heaven  ! 
So  that  these  stars  might  have  surcease  of  rest, 
And  grow  like  stagnant  waters  in  the  Sun 
To  eat  themselves  up  with  the  filth  they  breed. 
Ah  !  yonder  stars — these  ancient  godships  feel 
Their  former  deeds  ill-qualify  the  seats 
They  now  usurp  throughout  the  modern  Heaven, 
And  fear  to  move,  lest  moving  they're  unthroned  ; 
As  though  the  sitting  on  a  throne  made  kings 
Or  gods,  or  transfused  souls  in  slimy  men. 
A  king  is  he  whose  regnant  soul  acts  king  I 
Men  can  be  gods  'mong  men  who  act  the  god, 
And  every  dastard  is  himself  the  mark 
Showing  how  fur  below  his  knavish  heart 
The  tide  of  virtue  flings  the  weeds  of  vice. 
Look  at  the  Moon,  so  passionately  pure — 
See  how  she  knocks  unpitied  at  their  hearts, 
Like  outcast  Virtue  at  a  city's  gates 
Where  "merchant  princes"  star  commercial  skies. 
And  now — expanding  in  her  strength  of  woe, 
She  rises  o'er  the  senseless  myriads  there 
'  To  shield  her  virgin  pride  from  heartless  gaze, 
See — with  eyes  turned  for  comfort  to  her  heart, 
As  plant  that  closes  to  the  vulgar  touch, 
And  pale  determination  on  her  brow, 
And  sobs  unuttered  making  her  bare  breast 
In  expectation  rigid,  as  they  wait 


DREAMING   BY  MOONLIGHT. 

Upon  her  mouth,  as  prisoner  upon 
The  gates,  to  heave  his  presence  to  the  air — 
She  paces  queenlike  to  yon  murky  cloud, 
And  seeks  a  refuge  in  the  weighty  gloom : 
As  virgin  martyrs  her  god-ripened  years 
In  solemn,  solitary,  clQister  dun, 
Seeking  within  the  empire  of  her  faith 
Amends  for  that  cold,  senseless  world  she  fled — 
And  lo  !  the  people  who  had  passed  her  by, 
Or  gazed  at  her  for  beauty's  sake  alone, 
Proclaim  in  gossip  all  the  worth  gone  with  her : 
So,  all  the  stars  seem  whispering  of  the  Moon ; 
They  actually  brighten,  as  inspired, 
Now  she  is  gone,  in  pity  for  her  fate. 
Poor  Moon — thou  art  the  type  of  intellect, 
And  all  mankind  but  imitate  the  stars. 


'Tis  true — too  true :  but,  Leon,  let  us  on. 
Like  Rembrandt's  shadows  is  the  atmosphere, 
Darkly  and  deeply  clear,  to  night. 

LEON. 

Ay,  good  1 

And  through  it  brood  yon  clouds,  as  ponderous  as 
The  prophet  brow  of  Angelo's  Isaiah. 


Leon,  let  us  on — the  air  refreshes  like  a  bath : 
It  turns  quaint  fancies  in  my  dreaming  brain, 
Like  a  Kaleidoscope :  all  the  shiftless  thoughts, 
On  which  the  humid  noon  lay  like  muffed  glass, 
8* 


90  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 

Now  deftly  turn,  and  tumble  into  pictures. 
This  night  air,  like  iced  wine,  it  cools  the  brain 
And  warms  the  fancy.    Bah,  these  August  days, 
When  the  red  noon  like  a  huge  blanket  folds 
The  summer,  hushing  up  the  city's  energy 
Into  a  sluggish,  dreamless  sweat,  are  horrible — 
I  can  only  breathe  o'nights. 


The  day's  hot  jargon,  with  its  clamors  rude, 
Clangs  on  my  ear  as  doth  the  discord  mean 
When  miser  huckster  rings  a  poor  man's  coin. 
It  speaks  of  traffic,  doubts,  and  selfish  ends  ; 
The  whole  sensation  of  the  day  is  Cash. 
You  can't  enjoy  it  save  you  quit  the  town ; 
And  seek  sweet  nature  on  the  broad  highways  ; 
In  crooked  lanes  where  vine-clad  banks  are  fanned, 
By  lithe  witch-hazel  and  young  maple  boughs  ; 
In  yellow  woods  with  nuts  incrusted  o'er ; 
Or,  by  the  margins  of  the  elfin  streams, 
That  dance  in  white-capped  groups  a-through  the 

rocks, 

And  then  join  hands  to  rush  o'er  level  sands. 
You  leave  the  city  to  enjoy  the  day : 
But  in  this  park,  within  the  city's  heart, 
With  fabrics  dim,  like  battlements  around, 
We  can  enjoy  the  calm  and  placid  night. 
Night  speaks  a  language  known  to  every  tongue  ; 
When  I  unfold  my  heart  to  her,  I  feel 
As  though  I  spoke  to  every  troubled  soul. 
Her  starry  syllables  each  land  translates 
Into  the  universal  blessing — rest. 
In  every  clime  the  lover  trusts  in  her ; 


DREAMING   BY  MOONLIGHT.  91 

From  her  the  sorrow-laden  find  response  : 

She  is  munificence  itself  to  grief. 

On  her  pale  breast  the  wretched  outlaw  rests  ; 

The  beggar  views  the  starlight  as  a  king, 

Yea,  like  a  monarch  he  in  moonlight  walks, 

When  day,  like  monarch,  walks  upon  his  rags. 

And  to  the  student's  vague  and  longing  breast 

Is  not  the  vast  impenetrable  night 

A  fit  companion  ?     And  to  those 

Thrice  happy  hearts,  who  at  the  Throne  of  thrones, 

Seek  upon  bended  knee  sweet  recompense, 

And  all-supplying  dues  for  the  defaults 

Of  life,  what  time  so  prayerful  as  night 

To  make  their  peace  with  Heaven  ere  they  sink 

Into  that  temporary  death  called  sleep. 

PICTOB. 

Truly  thou  art  enraptured  with  the  night, 
And  break  thy  fantasies  upon  her  grace, 
As  lovers  do  upon  their  first  love's  love. 
Think  her  thy  mistress,  and  but  woo  her  thus, 
She'll  doubtless  graft  upon  thy  ardent  brain 
The  various  benefits  you  crown  her  with. 

LEON. 

The  Moon-sonled  midnight  is  the  Poet's  love, 
Pale  with  reflection  of  the  sunny  world 
Of  books  and  thought :  her  placid  forehead  bound 
'  With  strands  of  lustrous  stars,  but  brilliant  less 
Than  all  the  teeming  radiances  within. 
Her  wavy  locks  in  pale  effulgence  hang 
Around  them  with  prophetic  dreaminess, 


92  FAITH    AND  FANCY. 

As  doth  the  Revelations  of  Saint  John, 
Around  the  light  on  his  enthusiast  brain. 
Her  eyes  are  blue,  as  blue  as  Huron's  lake  ; 
And  like  it  clear,  in  which  the  gazer  sees, 
Through  magic  vistas  of  refracted  light, 
Her  pure  soul  bathing  in  their  azure  depths 
And  flinging  gems  out  as  a  nymph  from  cave. 
As  Huron's  lake  her  eyes  ;  their  lashes  dark 
Like  the  tall  fir-trees,  black  against  the  sky, 
Which  are  reflected  in  the  moon-lit  lake, 
And  lets  the  light  flood  through  their  lashy  web 
As  water  teems  out  from  a  fisher's  net, 
And  leaves  the  silver-fish  within  it  caught, 
Yet  leaping  brilliance  in  the  silken  jail. 

PICTOR. 

Bravo  !     Perchance  in  presence  of  the  fair 
You  have  described,  you  would  outline  the  bard, 
Who  hath  so  great  a  passion  for  her ! 

LEON. 

You  can  no  more  describe  the  Poet,  than 
You  can  make  rules  to  judge  of  poetry. 

PICTOR. 
Yet  critics  have  at  both  !  why  not  ? 

LEON. 

Because      ^p 

True  poetry,  is  truthful  thought  made  plain  ; 
Deep  love  of  Nature,  Man,  and  God !  that  brings 
To  each  heart's  empire,  humbly,  howsoe'er, 


DREAMING    BY    MOONLIGHT.  93 

The  greatest  good,  and  lifts  its  feelings  up 
To  man  and  God  with  pure  dependent  faith ! 
Can  we  make  rules  to  measure  each  heart's  need  ? 
Only  the  Poet  in  his  prophet  vein 
Comes  near  that  power. 

MCTOB. 
Yet  we  have  rules — 


True,  which  but  prove  they're  useless  to  true  song. 
Whence  come  these  rules  by  captious  critics  made  ? 
From  great  bard's  works  to  frighten  lesser  ones. 
All  poets  are  not  Shaksperes,  yet  they're  judged 
By  rules  which  Shakspere's  excellence  suggests: 
One  might  as  well  o'errule  the  tender  stars 
Because  they're  not  like  the  creating  sun. 
You  would  not  crush  th'  aspiring  creeping  rose, 
Because  it  cannot  be  a  centuried  oak  1 

PICTOR. 

No,  truly ;  'twere  too  bad  our  sweethearts  wore 
Nor  rose  nor  violet  on  their  breast  or  hair 
Because  forsooth  the  oak's  thy  king  of  plants. 

LEON. 

No.     Let  the  blessed  ones  be  decked  with  flowers  ! 
Those  blooming  gems  were  sent  for  woman's  care. 
They  are  the  fragrant  wealth  of  innocence — 
The  silent  courtiers  that  in  gardens  bow 
In  thankful  blossoms  to  the  gentle  queens 


94  FAITH    AND  FANCY. 

By  whose  sweet  leave  and  favor  they  are  there. 
Oh,  bless  the  girls !  especially  bless  those 
Who  honor  Nature  in  the  love  of  flowers. 
So  should  we  have  a  blessing  for  the  bard 
Who,  though  he  grasps  not  the  quick  changing  hues 
Of  life's  great  scenes,  in  all  their  epic  shifts, 
Cultures  the  flowers  and  harmonies  of  life  : 
His  heart  is  right. 

PICTOK. 

We  cannot  give  too  much 
Of  honest  recompense  to  those  who  live 
Alone  to  tend  the  beautiful. 


LEON. 

Recompense  ? 

How  can  you  recompense  the  Poet's  heart, 
Which  hath  more  wealth  than  lurid  placers  yield  ? 
The  Poet's  heart  encompasses  the  world, 
And  throbs  great  futures  into  fancied  life. 
He  knows  all  past,  and  as  a  cloud  o'er  moon 
Passes  the  present,  stealing  ah1  its  light, 
And  floats  up  farther  heavens  unknown  to  us 
Where  other  moons  make  night  to  other  worlds, 
And  other  suns,  like  fiery  burnished  bits, 
Rein  in  their  charging  satellites  as  steeds. 
He  thinks  vast  futures,  which,  if  born  aright, 
Shall  hold  his  image  as  the  son  his  sire's. 
He  flies  through  futures  as  a  seed  through  storm, 
That  falls  to  rise  a  cedar.     Ay,  he  hews 
Out  from  that  mine  of  mist,  to-morrow, 
Deep  echoing  temples  for  his  soul's  repose, 


DREAMING    BT   MOONLIGHT.  95 

And  dwells  in  them  to-day  : — as  Shakspere  loosed 

The  gusty  currents  of  his  Boreal  soul 

Through  the  tone-fashioning  valleys  of  his  brain, 

Which  sprang  such  sounds  two  centuries  ago 

As  have  not  ended  yet ;  so  that  no  ear 

Can  know  the  echo  from  the  voice  itself. 

Where  shall  its  gathering  echoes  end  ?     Oh  where ! 

If  'twill  not  live  this  third-rate  world  out, 

This  minor  fragment  of  the  Godhead's  work, 

And  float  it  full  of  song  and  sense  along 

The  turbulent  and  greedy  sea  of  Time, 

Dash  it  to  chaos  as  a  sacrifice, 

And  harmonize  the  crash  of  crumbling  worlds  ! 

\_A  pause. 

The  Poet's  recompense  is  in  being  a  Poet  1 
The  most  Earth  can  do  is  not  let  him  starve. 

PICTOR. 

I  pray  you,  Leon,  let's  not  talk  o'  that, 
The  Beautiful  will  drive  us  into  earth, 
Like  moles,  if  she  but  hear  us  mutter  "  bread." 
Come,  let  us  feed  upon  the  stars. 


Heavenly  night  I 
Night  such  as  this  is  truly  Poet's  food. 

PICTOR. 
And  Painter's  also  my  exclusive  friend. 

LEON. 

And  are  not  Painters  Poets  with  the  brush  ? 
It  is  their  Prospero-wand — it  is  the  rod 


96  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 

By  which,  as  Franklin  drew  the  heavenly  fire, 

They  draw  all  nature's  brilliance  to  their  will  1 

The  canvas  is  their  world,  o'er  which  supreme, 

The  artist  looks  creation  like  a  god, 

Seeing  vast  nature's  there  while  yet  'tis  blank. 

He  smiles,  'tis  peopled ;  mountains  lap  the  skies, 

Thick  plaided  woods  hang  robe-like  round  their  loins ; 

Rivers  leap  forth  with  glad  primeval  chants  ; 

Streamlets  run  babbling,  laughing  in  his  face, 

Like  little  children  who  may  smile  at  God ; — 

Valleys  yawn  open  at  his  peaceful  nod  ; 

Oceans  are  raging  when  he  thinks  in  thunder ; 

Ships  riven  sink  beneath  his  light'ning  eye  ; 

Flowers  chant  perfume  to  his  summer  thought ; 

And  he  surrounds  all,  as  the  air  his  earth  ! 

Is  not  this  poetry  ?    The  very  thought 

Matins  my  own  aspiring  dawn  for  verse, 

And  drags  up  all  my  wild  desires  and  love, 

Like  ghosts  from  out  the  sultry  tomb  of  noon, 

Where  they  were  sepultured,  not  dead,  but  tranced 

Thine  is  a  marvellous  art,  my  friend, 

And  thou,  hast  genius,  too — genius,  like  a  sun, 

To  richen  your  ambition,  send  a  pulse, 

And  life,  and  bright  transfusion  into  all 

It  smiles  upon  :  but  you  must  labor,  too, 

Like  that  great  orb,  and  heat  the  canvas  into  action 

So  that  when  you,  with  honor  doubled,  sink, 

Your  locks  grown  golden,  as  in  infant  age, 

With  all  the  sun-tinct  trophies  of  your  art, 

Your  every  picture,  like  a  starry  world, 

Shall  hold  a  fixed,  mysterious  wealth  to  earth, 

And,  all  combined,  be  galaxy  of  stars — 

An  orbed  and  systemed  heaven  in  which,  unseen 


DREAMING   BY   MOONLIGHT.  97 

Saving  through  them,  as  their  creator,  you 
Shall  look  and  live  eternal ! 

PICTOR. 

Fling  not,  Leon,  the  lasso  of  thy  tongue 
So  wildly  around  my  brain  :  you  make  me  mad, 
And  only  weaken  me  with  passion,  dumb. 
The  golden  net  you  weave  around  my  heart 
Is  blood-stained,  as  it  swells  to  its  capacity 
And  bursts.     I  plunge  in  your  great  fantasy, 
Like  a  man  at  sea,  mocked  at  each  plunge, 
Yet  plunging  still  to  overleap  the  waves, 
These  liquid  gods,  that,  white-lipped,  sneer  me  down. 
As  well  might  valley-huddled,  stream  leap  up 
And  kiss  the  hill-tops,  which  alone  kiss  heaven, 
As  I  attempt  the  laurel  that  you  shake  : 
You  place  the  destiny  too  infinite, 
The  crown  too  high. 

[  The  Students  walk  on  in  silence.  .  After  a 

long  pause,  and  suddenly,  PICTOR  resumes, 

musingly :] 

Yet  I  have  been  no  orphan  to  such  thoughts, 
But  they  were  in  less  vivid  frenzies  draped. 
[Enthusiastically. ~]      Ay,   I   have   oft   before  my 

easel  stood 

Watching  my  soul  take  shapes  o'  the  canvas — 
Flinging  my  color-laden  palette  there,' 
As  Jove  cast  Saturn's  blood  into  the  sea, 
And  saw  it  rise  a  goddess  I     I  have  stood 
Facing  this  new  heaven  like  a  continent, 
And  felt  my  ambitious  thoughts,  like  rivers, 
Glut  the  deep  secret  ravines  of  my  heart, 
Cataract  over  obstacles,  and  spread 
9 


98  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

On,  growing  stronger  for  an  ocean  bound  ; 

That  ocean,  like  all  seas,  immortal !          [.4  pause. 

Are  we  not  equal  to  our  dreams  ? 


We  are. 

The  dreams  of  poets  are  their  lives'  programmes. 
Even  their  acts  are  dreams  to  lesser  men, 
And  they  themselves  alone  can  act  their  dreams. 
Dreams  to  such  men  are  beacons  where  to  go  ; 
They  rest  the  body,  but  ne'er  calm  the  brain  ; 
And  while  flesh  sleeps  the  soul  allots  its  work. 
When  eyelids  kiss  eyelids,  like  a  fondling  pair, 
And  say  "  Good-night"  before  they  lock  in  sleep, 
'  Then  to  the  outward  world  the  poet  rests  ; 
The  while  his  body,  like  a  listless  cloud 
Scarce  motioning  in  summer  noon,  is  free, 
And  warmed  to  quiet  by  his  soul's  loud  songs, 
As  is  the  cloud  by  sunlight. 
A  brilliant  future  is  before  your  friend, 
As  lantern  looks  right  on  the  shadows  down  ; 
Fling  out  your  soul,  and  make  your  own  path  clear. 


If  I  could  undream  all  my  dreams  in  acts, 
Baptize  in  colors  all  my  waking  thoughts, 
Drag  them  like  culprits  to  the  face  of  day, 
And  sentence  them  to  service,  I  might  Be, 
As  oft  I  vainly  hoped,  a  people's  love, 
The  worshipped  of  a  race !  the  pajnter,  who 
Shed  lustrous  tribute  greater  far  than  gold 
Upon  the  State  I  dwelt  in,  and  was  reared, 


DREAMING    BY   MOONLIGHT.  99 

As  on  a  monument  of  human  hearts, 

Above  the  taxes  of  official  seal, 

As  Titian  was  in  Venice  I*    A  wise 

And  most  uncommon  prince  was  Charles  the  Fifth, 

Who  boasted  triple  immortality. 

LEON. 
Ha  1  monarchs  not  seldom  lie  ! 


But  he  spoke  truth, 
For  Titiano  painted  him  three  times. 

LEON. 

By  all  the  gods,  such  glory  makes  one  shake, 

As  though  the  gray,  rapt  antiquaries  were 

Fing'ring  one's  skeleton,  and  muttering 

Low  in  his  reverence — "  these  are  Pictor's  bones, 

The  wondrous  Artist  he,  and  these  Leon's 

The  Poet."     If  we  are  sepultured  a-close 

I'll  nudge  thee  then — you  laugh,  but  I'm  for  fame 

For  I  shall  link  my  verses  with  your  works, 

Ay,  like  name  upon  your  tomb,  to  live  there, 

And  become  immortal ;  coaxing  the  ages' 

Praise,  for  that  like  them,  I  knew  you  famous. 

As  Giovannj  Strozzi  for  all  time 

Stands  on  an  epigram,  he  wrote  on  him 

The  Arts'  Arch-angel  Michael,  Angelo ! 


Your  sarcasm  is  winning  in  its  fancy 
And  only  proves  how  prone  you  poets  are 


100  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 


To  make  mankind  your  debtors.     Yet  Leon 
In  rich  Johannisberg  I'd  drink  to  you 
And  your  imagination,  if  I  could. 


Bah !  rich  wine  makes  not  honest  wishes  richer, 
It  only  floats  the  loose  straws  of  the  wits 
Into  a  bundle  on  the  praise-choked  ear. 


Well,  here's  may  you  as  great  a  Poet  be, 
As  you  would  fain  so  make  an  Artist  me ! 

LEON. 

So  you  fling  back  my  measure  of  your  worth 

On  me  as  the  daguerreotypist  does — 

A  likeness  only  without  natural  hues. 

Ah  !     Flattery — thou'rt  used  to  coloring ; 

I  need  it  not  as  most  your  sitters  do, 

For  I  have  wed  my  heart  unto  my  brain. 

My  heart,  like  woman,  full  of  pure  desires 

Warms  the  wild  current  of  her  husband's  will, 

And  by  uniting  with  his  purpose,  hers, 

Keeps  all  his  forces  disciplined  by  love : 

So  they  are  one,  reliant,  strong,  and  pure. 

As  two  young  streams  that  fled  their  parent  hills, 

Conscious  of  beauty,  reckless  in  their  strength, 

Ambitioning  to  travel  through  an  earth, 

Are  madly  bounding  to'ards  a  chasm  unseen. 

Haply  they  meet,  and  gallant  by  the  way, 

Soon  they  expand,  like  lovers'  thought,  and  kiss 

In.  one  foam-passionate,  convincing  love  ; 


DREAMING   BY   MOONLIGHT.  101 

And  clinging  closer  in  the  shadowy  gorge, — 
As  wife  and  husband  in  misfortune's  gloom, — 
In  one  great  span, — as  rainbow  in  the  skies 
Aug'ring  of  good,  or  sunbeams  o'er  the  cloud 
Leap  to  the  earth, — they  near  the  brink,  and  then, 
In  one  wild  throb — love's  sacrificial  spasm, 
They  clear  the  rock,  fling  off  their  doubt  in  mist, 
Heave  in  joy's  agony  at  the  danger  past, 
And,  more  than  ever  in  each  other  twined, 
Pace  broadly  onward  through  a  wdnderiug  world. 


'Tis  a  bold  metaphor,  and  an  apt, 
According  well  with  your  fine,  frenzied, 
Rapturous  decision. 


As  those  wed  streams, 
So  of  my  heart  and  brain.     Wild,  riotous, 
Unknown  to  each,  as  stars  of  various  men 
After  rough  speculation  they  have  met, 
Thank  Heaven,  not  too  late,  and  shudder  o'er 
The  whispered  stories  of  their  reckless  past. 
My  head  and  heart,  like  Moses'  arms,  are  up 
For  victory !     Goliath-browed  Despair, 
That  giant  evil  falls,— my  will  the  David  I 
Yon  need  not  stare — I  am  not  crazed,  but  love, 
Passionately  love  the  beautiful  1 
The  wise,  the  great,  the  pure,  soul-worthy  great ; 
The  trees,  the  rocks,  the  rivers,  and  the  wind ; 
Earth,  all  its  prized  and  unknown  places ;  ay, 
For  here  I  learn,  what  no  man  knew  before, 
The  heavens  and  all  its  vast  localities 

9* 


102  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

Of  stars,  I  love  with  trembling  vibrant  soul, 
In  one  heart-easing  word — love  GOD. 

[A  silence  of  some  time:  Leon  resumes 

with  enthusiastic  calmness. 
Pictor,  what  I  aspire  to,  I  will  be, 
Or  swallow  up  myself,  as  the  ocean 
Swallows  the  rain  it  once  sent  to  the  skies. 


With  such  a  courage  you  deserve  to  win ; 
'Tis  honor,  friend,  with  courage  such  to  fail ; 
I  have  the  heart,  but  not  the  head  to  win, 
While  you  seem  born  to  fill  up  some  great  space  : 
Your  brain  is  like  a  ball  of  silken  thread, 
Which  may  be  woven  into  vast  extent 
As  great  in  texture  as  in  lustre  rare. 

LEON. 

The  Campanero  in  the  southern  woods, 
With  its  white-bosomed,  resonant  appeal, 
Makes  all  the  silence-shrouded  forest-trees 
Start  from  their  rest,  for  many  miles  around, 
As  convent-bell  its  votaries  to  prayer. 
So  when  I  sing,  all  distance  shall  be  near, 
In  the  wide  universal  echo. 
I'll  break  upon  men's  reveries  my  song, 
As  Campanero  on  the  dreaming  leaves  ; 
Or,  like  the  Tinamou,  that  lonely  bird,10 
I'll  utter  one  shrill  cry — and  men  shall  drop 
The  axe,  or  stay  their  rumbling  teams — 
Maids  shall  lean  closer  to  the  swarthy  arms 
And  bend  their  heads  to  hear  whence  comes  that 
sound 


DREAMING    BY    MOONLIGHT.  103 

Half  melancholy,  half  defiant  shriek, 

Which  they  shall  never  hear  again. 

I  shall  sing  loud  at  intervals,  or  but  once, 

And  then  no  more.     I  quail  not  to  go  on ; 

My  only  fear  is  to  recede  in  thought. 

Behind  ine,  like  a  ship,  there  is  a  billowy  surge, 

Before,  expansive  wastes  to  be  ploughed  up  ; 

Prophetic  Heaven,  as  one  vast  choir,  sings  "  go  on," 

And  earthly  nature  in  its  fruits  and  flowers 

Like  chanting  acolytes  respond. 

Why,  when  I  lift  my  forehead  to  the  Sun 

Does  he  not  make  my  onward  pathway  clear, 

And  that  I've  trod  gloom  with  my  own  shadows. 

[Clock  strikes. 


One — two — three — four — ah !  bless  me,  it  is  dawn  1 

How  fast  the  hours  speed  in  talking. — 

^Four  o'clock — let  us  for  home :   but  where's  the 

Moon? 

Oh  1  see  how  haggard  and  out-tired  she  looks, 
As  lonely  now  she  wanders  broken-souled, 
Scarcely  the  shadow  of  her  beauteous  self. 
And  all  the  stars  are  well-nigh  fled  away, 
To  dream  of  her  unhappiness  and  fate  ; 
Save  here  and  there,  some  tender-hearted  one, 
Lingers  who  is  not  resolute  to  go 
His  way,  or  either  follow  her  with  cheer. 
Mayhap  the  dead  fire  of  her  eloquence 
Still  spurts  in  embers  on  his  soul's  chilled  hearth — 
Who  pales  in  sorrow  for  his  acts  to  her, 
And  riven  in  consternation  for  her  fate, 
Sinks  purposeless  in  silence  where  he  stands. 


104  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 


So  men  who're  cowards  and  of  bloodless  hearts, 

Or  cold  and  stagnant  ones,  but  brains  enough 

In  silent  flights,  to  dare  a  future  think, 

Yet  lack  the  courage  to  construct  upon 

The  certain  present  coming  ages  claim. 

The  fools  know  not  that  those  who  live  when  dead, 

Are  never  dead  when  living. 

Here,  Pictor, 

Here  is  a  picture  for  your  brush, — see  where, 
Just  over  the  horizon,  undulate 
Those  pale,  flushed  clouds,  as  though  the  yestreen's 

Sun, 

That  sank,  like  dying  hero,  in  his  gore — 
Was  stirring  in  the  shroud  that  swathed  him  round, 
And  sent  his  luminous  action  through  the  folds, 
As  though  he  felt  he  was  not  dead,  but  slept, 
And  struggled  through  his  cerements  to  prove 
The  conscious  glory  to  the  weeping  earth.         ' 
See  too,  like  her  whose  son  the  Saviour  raised, 
The  mute,  dun  Heaven,  like  a  widow  stands — 
An  awed-hope  slightly  ruddying  her  weeds, 
Her  ashen  pallor  daring  not  to  flee, 
Until  she  sees — oh  mystery ! — her  son 
Unshrouded,  living,  breathing,  panting,  move 
Up  from  the  couch,  she  dreamt  alone,  of  death. 

PICTOR. 

Now  may  the  heartless  planets  tremble  ever, 
And  wailing  Moon  rejoice. 

LEON. 

But  no — she  flies 
Frightened  unto  death's  shadowy  texture, 


DREAMING  BY  MOONLIGHT.  105 

Stricken  in  the  presence  of  the  rising  Sun. 
Her  woman's  terror  giving  fright  full  speed, 
She  vanishes  before  what  seems  to  her 
The  gory  spirit  of  her  murdered  sire. 
And  on  through  vast  eternities  she  runs, 
Distracted,  plaining,  superstitious,  frayed  ; 
Loving  the  night,  as  sorrow  loves  the  gloom, 
For  then  her  heart  may  gush  a  daughter's  love 
In  orphaned  abnegation  of  all  bliss ; 
Save  of  her  stately  purity  thus  loving. 
Weak  with  her  wail,  distraught  with  fancies  wild, 
Haunted  with  loving  memories,  she  beholds 
Her  glorious  sire's  lurid  ghost  appear 
With  every  dawn,  and  barely  able,  flies ; 
While  he  hot-hearted,  not  less  loving,  lights 
The  heavens  all  day  to  tell  her,  he  is  there. 

So  the  eternal  chase  goes  ever  on ; 
The  Sun,  like  reason,  with  his  broadcast  light 
Rising  forever  to  explain  the  doubts, 
The  fear-suggested  nothings  of  the  dark, 
The  mist-made  mountains,  sombre  shadowed  groups 
And  filmy  pageants  of  the  moon-struck  hours. 
While  she,  the  Moon,  pale  superstition's  queen, 
The  monarch  of  the  realms  of  fay 
And  elf  and  goblin,  witch  and  boneless  ghost ; 
Reflections  of  her  wail,  as  she  of  Sun, 
For  fanatics  e'er  throng  gaunt  Reason's  wake 
Until  he,  goaded  with  their  insane  shouts, 
Turns  on  the  mob  with  bright,  determined  eyes  ; 
And  disconnects  them  hi  the  face  of  day, 
And  wakeful  men,  from  Truth's  unhowled  calm 
Faith:— 


106  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

Ay  she,  the  Moon,  pale  superstition's  queen, 
The  prophetess  of  most  devoted  slaves, 
Loud  Ignorance  and  tongueless  Fear,  dreads  Light, 
For  which  grave  Error  ever  says  she  seeks. 
Most  doubting  men  fear  most  to  be  convinced, 
Yet  preach  most  piously  they  thirst  for  fact. 
The  moon-brained  on  their  own  diseases  feed  : 
And  some  who,  sunless  in  a  dungeon's  vault, 
Have  lived  like  moles, — die  when  they  see  the  light. 
And  then  for  some,  black  error  hath  such  bliss, 
From  long  experience,  that  a  virtuous  life 
Brings  them  a  solitude — a  quiet  hell, 
A  spirit-maddening  calm,  like  calm  at  sea 
To  storm-tost  craft,  whose  hold  but  echoes  hath. 
So  of  the  frayed  Moon,  and  the  rising  Sun. 
Thus  the  eternal  chase  goes  ever  on, 
Chill  Superstition  wailing  through  the  gloom, 
Till  Nature,  flattered  that  she  pains  for  truth, 
Sends  up  refulgent  Reason  on  her  path  ; 
But  Superstition,  knowing  not  the  day, 
Affrighted,  flies  off  at  the  name  of  Light. 


EFFIE    (iRAY.  107 


EFFIE   GRAY. 

WE  may  watch,  and  we  may  wait — 

Hope,  till  hoping  bringeth  pain, 
But  she  ne'er  will  pass  the  gate — 

Effie  cannot  come  again. 

She  was  like  some  flower  of  Spring, 

Seeking  Summer  but  to  die, 
When  the  very  graves  can  bring 
Beauty  to  the  heart  and  eye ; 
When  each  mound,  like  throbbing  breast, 

Seems  to  heave  with  less  of  pain 
Than  of  conscious  pleasure,  pressed 
By  June's  loving  arms  and  brain: 
Arms  that  press  with  soothing  sway, 
Brain  enwreathed  with  flowers, 
These  are  meet  for  the  night  that  ne'er  finds  day — 
Meet  for  the  rest  of  Effie  Gray, 

Though  fraught  with  gloom  for  ours. 

We  may  dream  she's  coming  soon, 

But  we  dupe  our  hopes  in  vain : 
She  is  off—  the  Bride  of  June  I 

Effie  will  not  come  again. 


108  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 

She  is  gone  with  the  lordly  June 

Of  the  fragrant  blood  and  brow, 
And  the  flowers  croon  a  bridal  tune, 

Though  to  us  'tis  a  death-chant  now. 
Oh  1  her  face  was  bright  as  morn, 

And  her  eyes  were  dark  as  night, 
And  her  lips  had  a  sunny  scorn, 

Defending  the  weak  or  the  right ; 
And  her  locks,  like  the  loosened  tresses 

On  some  ripe  Bacchante's  head, 
Wove  sibylline  caresses 
Round  the  eyes  that  thither  sped ! 

Fit  Queen,  I  ween,  for  June  the  proud 
With  his  leaf-woven  caves  and  bowers — 
Though  her  laugh  be  hushed,  and  her  robe  a  shroud, 
Take  pride  in  thy  bride,  0  June,  the  proud, 
She  is  fairest  among  thy  flowers. 

Hope  we  may,  if  hope  we  must, 

To  allay  our  brooding  pain  ; 
But  the  hinge  be  rust,  and  the  gate  be  dust, 

Ere  fair  Effie  comes  again. 

She  "passed  through  this  tearful  earth, 

Like  a  sun-ray  through  the  rain, 
Making  diamonds  in  the  dearth, 

With  her  woman's  heart  and  brain. 
For  her  heart  was  like  the  shower 

In  July  with  bliss  replete  ; 
And  her  brain,  the  mystic  power 

Of  the  Indian  Summer's  heat. 
Oh  !  of  rich  and  sparkling  vintage 

Was  her  nature  bubbling  up, 


THE    PARTING   OF   THE    SUN.  109 

Till  Death,  the  reckless  drunkard, 

Drank  the  draught,  and  crushed  the  cup. 
No  human  hand  may  deck  the  grave 
Of  Effie  Gray  with  flowers  ; 

For  the  sun  through  the  noon,  and  at  night  the  moon 
Whispers  life  into  many  a  rare  festoon, 
As  never  might  spring  from  hand  like  ours. 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  SUN. 

•  i. 

IT  was  evening  by  the  Hudson,  and  the  Sun  in  conscience 

blest 

With  all  the  joy  he  gave  that  day,  went  nobly  down  to  rest ; 
Like  some  great  benefactor,  gliding  off  with  happy  mien, 
O'erjoyed  with  his  power  to  bless,  yet  blushing  because 

seen. 

n. 

Yet  he  lingered  for  a  moment,  as  to  crown  his  silent  mirth, 
By  witnessing  in  one  last  glance,  the  comfort  he  gave 

Earth, 
And  seemed  to  say,  "  God  bless  you,"  while  all  nature 

unto  him 
Sent  back  the  prayer  a  thousand-fold  from  stream  and 

leafy  limb. 

in. 

The  humble  shrub  that  hugged  the  Earth  doth  homage 
humbly  bring — 


110  FAITH   AND   FANCY. 

Like  all  good  loving  offspring  who  around  their  mother 

cling, 
And  repaying  back  her  kindness,  flower  a-near  the  aged 

sod — 
And  thrill  with  low-born  eloquence  of  thanks  to  Nature's 

God. 


Like  other  earthly  children  who  have  mental  strength 

and  growth, 
The  Poet  Oak,  the  Elm  Sage,  and  thoughtful  Willow, 

loth 
To  cramp  the  rich  exuberances  that  throb  their  pulses, 

dare 
Possess  the  mist  like  minstrels  and  make  music  with  the 

air. 


And  the  Kaatskills,  bleak  as  sorrow,  with  their  gray  heads 

to  the  sky, 
Seemed  mute  in  contemplation,  loth  to  bid  the  Sun  good- 

by: 
With  their  broad  backs  turned  westward,  as  though  grief 

would  not  allow 
Them  face  their  friend,  and  feel  his  smile  grow  weak 

upon  their  brow. 


They  fain  would  live  in  memories  of  the  noon,  like  sage 

who  cheers 
In  gossiping  of  long  lost  joys  that  sunned  his  manhood's 

years — 


THE    PARTING    OF   THE    SUN.  Ill 

But  the  anxious  mist,  like  gathering  tears,  creep  deftly 

o'er  their  breast, 
And  circling  thence,  like  blood,  rush  up  the  sorrow  to 

their  crest. 

VII. 

And  the  Hudson,  like  a  courier,  doth  with*  serious  fury 

run, 

To  bear  old  hoary  Ocean  the  last  message  of  the  Sun  ; 
Where  the  Congress  of  the  river-gods  in  coral  halls  hold 

feast, 
And  bid  the  waves  go  welcome  in  his  dawning  in  the 

East. 

VIII. 

And  the  tall  trees  weep  in  shadows,  for  happily  know 
they 

The  Sun  can't  see  the  gloom  he  casts  around  when  forced 
away, 

And  kindly  show  their  brightest  sides  to  soothe  the  part- 
ing pain, 

While  Day  and  Night's  weird  offspring,  Eve,  speeds  up  the 
eastern  plain. 

IX. 

There's  a  silence,  like  that  moment  when  the  drear  fact 

feeds  the  blast, 
That  the  golden  sands  of  some  great  god  of  earth  have 

run  their  last,  » 
And  noiseless  round  his  couch  the  world,  the  nurse,  Night, 

one  by  one, 
Drapes  the  dun  curtains  of  the  clouds,  and  mutters  pale — 

"  He's  gone." 


112  FAITH    AND    FANCY. 


HE  WRITES  FOR  BREAD. 


TIME — 'tis  midnight :  SCENE — a  Garret : 

Dramatis  Personce — two  : 
One,  with  wintry  locks  of  silver — 

One,  with  locks  of  dark-brown  hue. 
And  the  old  man  sits  him  calmly, 

Speaking  nothing,  while  his  face, 
With  its  quiet  depth  of  meekness, 

Sheds  a  radiance  on  the  place. 
But,  God !  could  we  unfold  his  soul, 

And  read  the  epic  there, 
We  would  not  wonder  at  his  thought, 

Nor  whiteness  of  his  hair. 
Anon,  he  strangles  to  a  sigh, 

Some  heart-ache  upward  led  ; 
Lest  by  a  word 
He'd  break  the  chord 

Of  song  that's  wildly  flitting 

Through  the  brain  of  him,  that's  sitting, 
Gushing  out  his  very  heart's  blood 

On  the  page  before  him  spread* — 
For  through  the  night  the  young  mau  kneads 

His  brain  for  their  daily  bread. 


HE    WRITES    FOR    BREAD.  113 


See,  his  pen  toils  slower,  slower ; 

Now  he  talks  his  dreams  aloud ; 
And — he  hastes  to  wrap  his  fancy 

In  the  pale  expectant  shroud  : 
For  every  sheet  his  brain-thoughts  fill, 

Each  line  his  keen  wants  crave, 
But  wrap  and  bind  by  piecemeal  down 

The  youth  to  an  early  grave. 
Those  little  characters  he  inks, 

Are  all  grim  Death's  abettera ; 
He  does  not  nobly  die  at  once, 

But  sinks  to  his  grave  by  letters. 
And  now  his  jaded  thought  would  lag 
To  soothe  his  aching  head ; 
But  he  cannot  wait, 
For  the  empty  plate 
Reflects  back  his  stare 
For  the  loaf  not  there : 
But  the  old  man  is  there — 0  God !  must  he  starve 

While  legions  of  other  men's  fathers  are  fed  ? 
The  pang's  inspiration  !    The  madhouse  and  love 
Are  gambling  for  him  who  is  writing  for  bread. 


in. 

He  writes  to  make  the  readers  laugh, 
When  his  heart's  full  with  tears, 

And  all  the  Town  seem  happy  when 
His  prose  or  verse  appears. 

They  little  know  the  loving  heart 
That  beats  in  garret  dun, 


114  FAITH   AND    FANCY. 

Or  while  they  daily  go  to  'Change, 
What  change  would  be  to  him ! 
The  Printer's  paid — the  Paper's  paid — 

The  Pressman's  pressing,  too  ; 
And  while  the  Author's  left  to  starve, 

The  "  Devil,"  gets  his  due ; 
The  Publisher  in  carriage  rolls, 
And  sleeps  on  feather  bed, 
While  he  that  gives 
Them  all  life,  lives 
In  a  prison  of  thought  and  sorrow, 
"•Never  daring  to  think  on  the  morrow ; 
For  the  Bookseller's  note,  which  put  off  the  pay, 

Will  not  lighten  a  creditor's  tread, 
Nor  save  from  the  landlord  the  few  darling  books 
Of  the  Bondman  who  writes  for  his  bread. 


NOTES. 


1  REMINISCENCE  OP  FOKT  CORCORAN. —  Henry  Watterson, 
Esq.,  whose  striking  articles  on  "  Thomas  de  Quincey,"  and 
"  American  Song,  as  illustrated  by  George  P.  Morris,"  in  the 
National  Democratic  Quarterly,  have  attracted  such  deserved 
notice,  has  been  writing  some  graphic  sketches  of  camp  and 
camp-life  about  Washington,  for  the  Philadelphia  Press,  over 
the  nom  de  plume  of  "  Asa  Trenchard."  In  one  of  his  lengthiest 
sketches  he  gives  a  most  earnest  and  picturesque  description  of 
"  the  first  flag-raising  over  Federal  battlements  in  the  Old  Do- 
minion" in  the  war,  and  which,  as  an  exciting  and  interesting 
historical  episode  in  the  career  of  the  gallant  Sixty-ninth,  can- 
not be  omitted  from  the  chronicle  which  will  record  the  strength 
and  patriotism  which  constructed  Fort  Corcoran.  Arriving  just 
in  time  for  "  the  grand,  imposing  spectacle,"  he  says : 

"  As  I  stood  and  surveyed  the  hastily  summoned  regiment — 
thirteen  hundred  of  them— some  in  red  flannel  shirts,  with 
sleeves  rolled  up,  exposing  the  grand  sinews  of  brawny  arms ; 
some  in  blue  jackets,  soiled  with  the  toil  of  the  trenches ;  some 
in  white  flowing  havelocks ;  some  in  cocked  hats,  and  some 
bareheaded,  it  was  impossible  to  repress  an  audible  expression 
of  admiration  at  the  splendid  material  represented  for  the  work 
or  the  glory  of  war.  There  the  dark  brows,  lowering  from 
massive  foreheads  over  flashing  eyes  ;  there,  pale  but  bleachless 
cheeks  to  fear,  knit  closely  to  impregnable  lips,  the  craters  of 
flaming  and  invincible  breath,  the  pride  and  prowess  of  repre- 
sentative Ireland,  the  issue  of  that  spreading  Celtic  seed  which 
has  sown  the  world  with  power,  stood  before  me. 

"  The  troops  were  drawn  up  in  a  semicircle,  gradually  rising 
within  the  amphitheatre  formed  by  the  mounds  of  earth-erected 
batteries,  the  front  files  sitting,  the  next  grade  stooping,  and 
the  rear  ranks  standing  upon  the  declivity,  as  it  sloped  upward 
toward  the  'outer  walls,'  the  whole  presenting  the  spectacle 
of  a  circus  audience,  seen  from  the  centre-poet  in  the  ring ;  this 
centrerpost  being  a  noble  shaft  from  which  the  banner  now 
waves. 


116 


"  The  group  around  this '  pillar  of  light'  were  Colonel  Corcoran 
(now  general),  Colonel  Hunter  (now  major-general),  of  the  regu- 
lar army,  Captain  Meagher  (now  brigadier-general),  John  Sav- 
age, volunteer  aid  to  Corcoran,  and,  of  course,  '  Asa  Trenchard.' 

"  Now  for  the  ceremony. 

"First,  Colonel  Corcoran  introduced  Colonel  Hunter,  who 
had  just  been  assigned  the  command  of  the  brigade  of  the 
Aqueduct,  consisting  of  the  Fifth,  Twenty-eighth,  and  Sixty- 
ninth  New  York  regiments,  making  some  patriotic  allusion  to 
the  flag.  Colonel  Hunter  was,  of  course,  received  with  loud 
acclaim,  when  Meagher  was  called  out  by  the  throng.  He 
stepped  forward,  and  made  a  brief  but  high-toned  and  patriotic 
address,  showing  the  devotion  Irishmen  should  bear  to  that 
flag  which  brought  succor  to  them  in  Ireland,  and  to  which, 
iipon  landing  in  this  country,  they  swore  undivided  allegiance. 
He  was;  heartily  applauded  throughout. 

"  John  Savage,  at  the  desire  of  Colonel  Corcoran,  sung  the 
following  song  to  the  air  of '  Dixie's  Land.'  It  was  written  by 
himself,  and  is  entitled  '  The  Starry  Flag,'  which  is  now  iden- 
tified with  the  Sixty-ninth. 

"  The  enthusiasm  which  this  peculiarly  stirring  song,  with 
its  splendid  refrain  chorused  by  thirteen  hundred  brave  voices, 
aroused,  while  the  Stars  and  Stripes  floated  proudly  forth  from 
the  mast-head  in  the  melting  sunset  on  the  sweet  breeze  from 
the  river,  cannot  be  described.  It  was  electrical.  There  stood 
the  author  himself  by  the  side  of  Meagher,  both  symbols  of 
Irish  patriotism  ;  there  stood  those  dauntless  men,  their  broth- 
ers in  arms  and  exile ;  and  there,  above  all — the  stripes  vying 
with  the  red  streaks  of  the  west,  and  its  stars  with  the  silver 
globes  that  already  began  to  break  through  the  sky — waved 
the  banner  which  had  come  to  them  when  starving,  which  had 
protected  them  when  flying,  and  for  whose  preservation  and 
perpetuation  they  now  marched  to  the  roll  of  the  national  re- 
veille !  Well  might  it  awaken  those  grateful  hearts ;  and  no 
wonder  that  when  the  last  thunders  of  the  final  verse,  roaring 
like  distant  artillery,  were  rising  up  like  vigils  around  the  flag, 
they  broke  from  their  places  and  surrounded  their  chief,  their 
orator,  their  priest,  and  their  poet  in  a  general  Irish '  hullabaloo,' 
as  inspiring  as  a  camp-meeting.  I  must  say  that  it  was  very  hard, 
between  the  comic,  grolesque  scene  now  presented  to  the  eye, 
and  the  earnest,  heartfelt  associations  imaged  to  the  heart,  it 
was  difficult  to  refrain  from  mingled  convulsions  of  laughter 
and  crying. 

"  A  word  or  two  apropos  of  this  song,  which  I  cannot  but  be- 
lieve has  a  future  in  it.  Its  origin  is  not  less  dramatic  than  its 
poetry,  and  its  brief  story  as  interesting  as  the  history  of  the 


117 


'  Marseillaise'  or  the  '  Star-Spangled  Banner.'  It  was  first  writ- 
ten and  sung  on  the  war  transport '  Marion,'  on  her  perilous 
route  up  the  Potomac  through  the  masked  batteries  of  the 

enemy's  country. " — From 

Morris  &  Willies  Home  Journal. 

1  "  Ich  sterbe  gern  fiir  Freiheit  tmd  fur  Licht, 
Qetreu  der  Fahne  der  ich  zugeschworen." 

*  "  A  hundred  thousand  welcomes." 

4  Shane  O'Neill,  the  most  powerful  Ulster  chief  of  his  day, 
had  so  harassed  the  English,  and  scoffed  at  all  their  arts  of 
diplomacy,  their  offers  of  nobility  and  reformatory  patronage, 
that  the  "  government  seems  to  have  determined,  either  by 
force  or  otherwise,  the  northern  prince  must  be  destroyed." 
After  living  for  some  years  the  proud,  ferocious,  and  feared 
ruler  of  Ulster,  he  was  at  last  murdered  at  a  feast  given  to  him 
by  the  Scotch  Macdonnells,  of  Antrim,  whose  sept  he  had  for- 
merly ravaged.  The  instigator  of  this  foul  treachery  and 
slaughter  was  one  Piers,  an  English  officer  and  agent  of  the 
Lord  Deputy.  He  appropriated  O'Neill's  head,  and  received  for 
it  one  thousand  marks  from  Ids  master.  "  This  ghastly  head 
was  gibbeted  high  upon  a  pole,  and  long  grinned  upon  the 
towers  of  Dublin  Castle."  For  an  account  of  Shane,  vide  Mitch- 
el's  Life  of  Hugh  O'NeUL 

*  Kippure,  Castle-Kelly,  Bal-mannoch,  Cornaun  (better  known 
ns  the  old  hill  of  Rollinstown,  and  at  present  called  Montpelier), 
See-Finane,  &c.,  are  the  names  of  hills  which  form  part  of  the 
range  of  Dublin  mountains,  and  look  down  into  Gian-nis-mole, 
or  "  the  Vale  of  Trushes."    Kippure  is  at  the  remote  end  of  the 
valley.    The  Dodder  rises  in  this  hill  from  three  springs,  which 
join  a  short  way  down,  and  thence  united,  spring  into  the  vale. 
Kilmosantan  is  the  ruin  of  a  primitive  Christian  church,  situate 
between  the  river  and  the  yell,  and  about  two  hundred  yards 
from  the  latter.     The  "Golden  Spears"  are  the  two  conical 
mountains  of  Wicklow,  known  as  the  "  Sugar  Loaves." 

The  above  was  originally  published  in  1848  ;  and  afterwards 
collected  into  the  "  Lays  of  the  Fatherland,"  by  the  author, 
in  is.-,o.  The  kind  mention  of  it  by  several  American  critics 
writing  on  Irish  poetry  since,  has  induced  the  author  to  free 
it  as  much  as  possible  from  the  inaccuracies  consequent  upon  a 
hasty  publication  originally,  and  without  a  glance  even  at  the 
proof-sheets.  It  has  been  altered,  and  somewhat  rewritten— it 
is  to  be  hoped  for  the  better. 


118  NOTES. 

9  Written  upon  contemplating  Stuart's  portrait  in  the  Boston 
Athenaeum. 

lirmer's  picture  "  The  Death  of  the  Poach- 
"  Gems  from  the  Diisseldorf  Gallery,"  edited  by 
B.  Frodshain,  and  published  by  the  Appletons. 

8  "  I'll  change  them  as  the  Cyprian  fair,  she  did 

To  moody  oxen,"  &c. 

Amongst  the  instances  recorded  by  the  mythologists  of  the 
severity  of  Venus  against  such  as  came  under  her  dislike  is, 
that  she  transformed  the  women  of  Amathus,  in -Cyprus,  into 
oxen,  for  their  cruelty. 

9  "  Above  the  taxes  of  official  seal, 
•      As  Titian  was  in  Venice,"  &c. 

On  an  occasion  of  general  impost  upon  the  inhabitants  of 
Venice,  the  Senate,  in  estimation  of  the  genius  of  Titian,  de- 
clared him,  and  one  other  alone,  exempt  from  the  tax.  The 
other  was  Sansovino,  the  statuary  and  architect. 

Apropos  of  the  allusion  in  the  text  to  Titian's  portraits  of 
Charles  V.,  I  may  quote  C.  P.  Carpani  (Notes  to Benvenuto  Cellini's 
Memoirs) :  "  Charles  V.  particularly  declared  himself  indebted 
to  him  three  times  for  immortality,  since  he  had  as  often  drawn 
his  portrait ;"  and  seeing  that  his  courtiers  envied  the  public 
favors  bestowed  on  one  whose  only  title  was  painter,  he  ob- 
served to  them  that  "  he  himself  could  create  dukes,  counts, 
and  nobles  by  hundreds,  but  that  God  alone  could  form  a  Tiziano." 
Great  homage  this  of  monarchy  to  mind,  and  not  without  a 
reason  it  would  seem,  from  the  attention  drawn  to  these  famous 
portraits.  "  It  is  pretended,"  says  Quatremere  de  Quincy,  allud- 
ing, in  his  •'  Life  of  Raffaello,"  to  the  statement  in  the  Lettere 
Pittoriche,  "  that  the  illusion  of  the  likeness  was  such  that  the 
picture,  having  been  placed  noar  a  table,  the  son  of  the  emperor 
approached  it,  in  order,  as  he  supposed,  to  talk  with  his  father 
on  business."  k 

10  <<  rpjje  Campanero  in  the  southern  woods,"  Sic. 

"  Or  like  the  Tinamou,  that  lonely  bird,"  &c. 
"  The  Campanero  never  fails  to  attract  the  attention  of  the 
passenger  ;  at  a  distance  of  nearly  three  miles  you  may  hear 
the  snow-white  bird  tolling  every  four  or  five  minutes,  like  the 
distant  convent- bell." 

"  Every  now  and  then,  the  Maam  or  Tinamou  sends  forth 
one  long  and  plaintive  whistle  from  the  depths  of  the  forest, 
and  then  stops." — WATERTON'S  Wa/idariitffs  in.  South  America. 


In  Press,  Library  Edition, 

SYBIL, 

A  TRAGEDY  IN  FIVE  ACTS, 

AS   REPBE8KNTED    AT 

THE   PRINCIPAL  THEATRES   OF   THE   UNITED    STATES,    BT    AVONIA   JONES, 
MATILDA    HERON,    AND    MRS.    EMMA    WALLER. 


CRITICAL    OPINIONS. 

"This  piece  was  originally  produced  at  St  Louis,  with  Miss  Avonla  Jones  as 
the  heroine,  and  successfully  played  by  her  for  over  sixty  nights  during  that 
season,  In  Louisville.  Chii-ago;  Cincinnati",  Richmond.  New  Orleans  and  the  other 
principal  cities  in  the  South  and  West.  She  afterwards  appeared  in  California 
and  Australia,  and  was  everywhere  received  in  this  character  wiih  enthusiasm. 
She  w  is  almost  invariably  called  before  the  curtain  after  the  third,  fourth,  and 
fifth  acts  of  the  play,  and  on  one  occasion  the  excited  audience  followed  her  to 
her  hotel,  and  would  not  disperse  until  she  made  her  appearance  on  the  bal- 
cony."— H,me  Journal. 

"The  play  is  well  written — the  language  good,  the  dialogue  easy,  and  the 

situations  effective, It  is  of  that  domestic  kim'i  which  is 

always  popular,  and  is  one  of  the  best  American  productions  we  have  seen." — 
QKOKGE  D.  PRKNTICB,  LouixvilU  Journal. 

"The  play  of  Sybil  is  one  of  no  ordinary  merit  With  the  exception  of  the 
introductory  act.  which  seems  to  us  to  be  tedious,  and  not  suitably  preparatory 
for  the  thrilling  drama  which  follows.  It  is  a  trazedy  which  ranks  with  the  im- 
mortal works  of  the  be*t  writers  for  the  stage.  There  is  nothing  in  the  plays  of 
Shakspere  more  beautiful  anil  affecting  than  the  scene  in  which  Sybil  asks  an 
oath  for  the  destruction  of  her  seducer,  and  her  lover  kneels  by  her  side,  and 
looks  to  heaven  and  takes  the  terrible  oath."—  Louisville  Courier. 

'•The  story  is  of  well-sustained  Interest  thronehont,  and  the  plot  well  han- 
dled by  the  dramatist.  The  three  last  acts  will  well  compare  with  any  dramatic 
product  on  the  modern  stage.  ......  ." — Richmond  Enquirer. 

"  Mr.  John  Savage's  play.  '  Sybil,'  was  produced  at  the  St  Charles  last  night 
before  a  large  auditory,  from  whom  It  received  a  triumphant  reception.  As" an 
acting  drama  it  has  polnte  of  effect  which  will  keep  it  upon  the  staze  when  the 
actress  for  whom  it  was  written  shall  walk  the  boards  no  more.  Though  often 
trembling  on  the  very  brink  of  the  blood  and  thunder  abyss  of  the  melodrama, 
it  is  constantly  rescued  anil  assured  to  respectability  by  the  purity  "nil  loftiness 
of  expression,  and  by  the  unexpected  denouement*  of  ihe  minor  complications. 
The  staple  of  the  plot  is  of  a  nature  so  delicate  as  to  require  the  most  gingerly 
handling,  and  we  confess  that  we  were  surprised  and  pleased  by  the  skilful 
manner  in  which  the  dramatist  has  managed  it  The  minor  scenes  are  dis- 
creetly made  only  so  long  as  Is  necessary  to  the  continuity  of  the  plot  The 
part  of  .SyfciY  i-  a "study,  for  it  Is  the  mont  natural  unnatural  character  that  we 
can  recall  In  the  range  of  the  drama.  As  to  its  performance,  we  never  saw 
Miss  Jones  in  any  other  part  approach  to  the  tragic  power  she  displayed  in 
this."— New  Orleans  Daily  Crescent. 


CRITICAL    OPINIONS. 


"This  production,  having  created  quite  a  sensation  in  the  several  cities  in 
which  it  has  been  put  upon  the  stage,  excited  more  curious  interest  among 
our  playgoers  than  any  other  dramatic  piece  that  has  yet  appeared  upon  the 
bills.    ......     As  a  production  of  high  literary  merit  there  is  no  ques- 

tion of  Its  claims.  It  is,  perhaps,  unequalled  among  the  more  modern  pro- 
ductions."— Memphis  Avalanche. 

"  The  genius  of  the  author  rises  in  grandeur  with  the  stirring  incidents  of  the 
scenes  that  rapidly  succeed  each  other,  from  the  commencement  of  the  third 
Bet  to  the  close  of  this  thrilling  drama  of  domestic  life.''  —  San  Francisco 
National. 

"  The  Play  of  '  Sybil'  is  beautifully  written.  Many  of  its  passages  are  poetic 
gems.  It  is  replete  with  elegant  diction,  exquisite  pathos,  and  soul-ennobling 
thoughts  and  expressions.  It  is  almost  too  brilliant.''  —  Sacramento  Dem. 
Standard. 

"  Mr.  John  Savage's  drama  of  '  Sybil.'  which  has  acquired  an  historic  interest, 
unded,  but 


not  only  from  the  tragic  episode  on  which  it  is  founded,  but  from  the  circum- 
stances attending  its  first  production  at  the  Louisville  theatre,  was  brought  out 
at  this  establishment  (Winter  Gardt-n)  last  night.  With  such  materials  as 


stances  attending  its  first  production  at  the  Louisville  theatre,  was  brought  out 
at  this  establishment  (Winter  Gardt-n)  last  night.  With  such  materials  as 
Mr.  Savage  had  to  deal  with,  he  could  not  well  write  a  piece  that  would  fail 


in  interest;  but  there  was  for  this  very  reason  a  fear  that  he  would  fall 

the  error  to  which  all  young  playwrights  are  exposed  in  dealing  with  such  a 

subject — that  of  investing  it  with  a  melodramatic  character. 

"That  danger  he  has" happily  avoided.  From  the  commencement  to  the 
close  the  effects  are  legitimate  and  owe  but  little  to  dramatic  artifices.  The 
language,  though  what  might  be  expected  from  an  accomplished  writer,  is 
never  stilted  or  high  flown,  as  first  efforts  of  this  sort  are  liable  to  be.  The  in- 
tensely absorbing  interest  of  the  main  incidents  might,  it  is  true,  have  been 
relieved  by  a  few  broader  dashes  of  humor  in  the  characters  of  the  inferior  per- 
sonages of  the  piece,  and  a  little  more  local  color  might  have  been  given  to 
it;  but,  perhaps,  on  the  whole.  Mr.  Savage  exercised  a  Vise  discretion  in  con- 
fining himself  to  effects  of  which  he  was  sure,  and  which,  as  the  result  proved, 
were  amply  sufficient  for  success. 

"There  is  much  to  criticise,  much  to  find  fault  with,  in  Miss  Heron's  im- 
personation of  the  character;  but,  with  all  this,  it  must  be  admitted  that  it 

was  a  remarkable  performance In  the  interview  with 

Sharp  she  was  really  fine,  reminding  one  at  times,  in  the  concentration  of 
hatred  and  loathing  which  she  exhibited  towards  him.  of  Kaehel.'' — NeiioYork 
ffera'd. 

"Last  evening,  she — Matilda  Heron  as  Sybil — was  in  her  highest  form,  and 
in  the  surge  of  sentiment  and  pomp  of  passion  which  swells  around  the  char- 
acter, she  surpassed  herself. n—New  York  Daily  Time*. 

"Grand  as  she  undoubtedly  is  In  Cami'lf,  in  the  S>/M!  she  quite  eclipsed 
that  character.     The  author  has  surrounded  her  with  every  variety  of  tender 
passion,  revenge,  and  remorse,  and  each  aspect  of  these  varied  feelings  was 
rendered  by  Miss  Heron  in  a  manner  not  artistic,  but  life-like    ...... 

The  play  may  be  set  down  as  a  great  success." — New  York  Express. 

"Upon  these  incidents,  fresh  and  terrible  as  they  are.  Mr.  John  Savage 
has  constructed  a  tragic  drama.  The  author,  albeit  unused  to  the  boards,  has 
not  fallen  into  turgidity.  He  has  maintained  a  rare  moderation  of  tone,  look- 
ing to  the  fierce  facts  to  sustain  him.  All  that  he  portrays,  and  more,  nct- 
ually  happened.  When  the  villain  meets  the  heroine  in  the  play,  she  re- 
lents from  her  determination,  and.  while  spurning  his  audacious  advances 
begs  him  to  fly,  to  escape  her  husband's  wrath  were  he  to  find  oui,  his  real 
name  and  character.  This,  as  we  have  shown,  is  not  in  the  real  story.  But  it 
improves  and  varies  the  characteristics  of  the  central  figure:  portrays  fcmfnine 
tenderness,  which  is  the  allurement  of  all  women,  on  or  off  the  stage." — New 
York  Tribune. 

«  She— Mrs.  Waller  as  Sybil— was  honored  by  being  called  before  the  cur- 
tain four  times."— Philadelphia  Evening  Bulletin. 


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